


standing at your side (and all that means)

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Drama & Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Relationship(s), Secret Relationship, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: Byleth felt more and more like the little wyvern from his father’s stories, the one who wanted to play with a wasp’s nest. Every time he saw Dimitri, his mind conjured more detailed pictures, more fantastic scenarios, to stew over. It was a curse, nourished by the lure of the forbidden.---Garland Moon, 1186. Byleth knows three things for certain. He is Jeralt Reus Eisner’s son, he possesses the power of a goddess, and he is in love with Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.Beyond that, there's nothing else.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 71
Kudos: 162





	1. enough

**Author's Note:**

> I have altered the timing and sequence of some events to reflect what I hope is a more realistic movement of a medieval army across a continent. As such, some battles will be longer, there is no zipping back to the monastery, and the war did not end until Horsebow Moon 1186. Also, for the purposes of this story, the Tragedy of Duscur took place in Wyvern Moon 1176.

It was the Garland Moon. The women of Fhirdiad were weaving white roses into crowns for the first time in five years. Traditionally a time to reflect on the bonds of love and family, on this occasion it also served as a celebration of the city’s liberation and the return of its prince. There was a feeling of optimism in the streets, of hope that the war was finally nearing its end.

Meanwhile, the generals of the Kingdom army were gathered in the castle’s throne room, milling about the enormous map of Fódlan laid with coloured stone into the floor. Margrave Gautier strode across the continent towards Dimitri, who sat not on Faerghus’s throne, but the stairs leading up to it.

“The idea is this, Your Highness,” he was saying. “If you approach Derdriu from the south, Arundel will be trapped. He will be forced to either engage or flee into the ocean.”

Dimitri leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His hands, enclosed in gloves despite the early summer heat, revealed his unease as they twisted together.

“And the civilians?” he asked, looking up at the Margrave.

From where Byleth stood at the side of the room, propped against a pillar with his arms crossed, he could see the marks under Dimitri’s eyes. He noted the paleness of his face, a detail only partially disguised by the light filtering through the room’s stained windows. The prince was worn out. Probably not sleeping. And in a loose, blue shirt and fitted trousers instead of armour—with the Margrave towering over him, in full military uniform—he looked strangely defenceless.

Byleth wanted to go to him. But to do so would be to cross a river, in a leaky boat, with no method of return.

“By Claude’s account, Derdriu is ill-prepared,” Sylvain said, in response to Dimitri’s question. “But its walls are high and sturdy. Arundel is sure to mount a siege. The best thing we can do for the people is attack, and as soon as possible.”

Dimitri turned to Sylvain, who, flanked by Ingrid and Felix, stood beside the knee-high flags that marked the Imperial army’s position. In a rushed reconnaissance mission spanning the first three days of the moon, Ingrid and her pegasus knights had mapped their route through the Alliance. Felix and Sylvain had spent the fourth making estimates of the enemy’s numbers and drawing up battle plans. But the Margrave was superior to them in terms of military ranking, and so was the one to present the findings.

“Surely Claude evacuated the city?” Dimitri asked Sylvain.

Sylvain bit his lip. The Margrave answered.

“Your Highness has studied the great sieges,” he reprimanded. “Civilians are expected to help defend their city, not flee like cowards.”

A bell sounded, signalling that it was three hours past noon. Dimitri raked his fingers through his hair.

“Let’s adjourn,” he said. “Mercedes is fretting because no one has eaten.”

Mercedes had been trying for the last half hour to get someone, anyone, to drink a cup of tea. Now she bowed her head at Dimitri in thanks as the generals began to disperse.

Hapi was the first out the door, no doubt on her way to visit Ashe. The sniper had suffered a serious wound in the battle to win Fhirdiad, and although he was on the road to recovery, he was not well enough to attend strategy meetings. Hapi liked to keep him informed of proceedings. Ingrid and Felix left with their heads together, Sylvain trailing behind as he regarded Dimitri with a concerned expression. Annette nudged Linhardt after them when he failed to move. The Margrave, Count Charon and the Seneschal of Itha, who in the absence of a new duke oversaw the plains north of Fhirdiad, followed.

Gilbert, on the other hand, went straight to Dimitri. Byleth watched from his place by the pillar.

“Your Highness,” Gilbert said, “you must eat.”

Dimitri smiled up at the knight, but even that was measured in exhaustion and trepidation.

“Just a moment alone,” he said softly. “Please.”

Gilbert glanced at Byleth. Dimitri followed his gaze and met Byleth’s eyes for an instant, before turning back to the map on the floor to stare at Enbarr, the city closest to his feet.

“Very well, Your Highness,” Gilbert said.

It was with a hopeful expression that Gilbert left the room. Byleth nodded acknowledgement of it, as though the weight of such expectations was nothing. Gilbert, like Rodrigue, like Felix, like so many others, believed that when it came to Dimitri, Byleth would make good where they had failed. In the four weeks since Byleth’s one success—which had only happened because of Rodrigue’s sacrifice—they had forgotten that his previous attempts had ended with Dimitri snarling, pushing him away. Before, he had never been enough.

All Byleth could hope was that today, like the day in the rainstorm, he was.

When the door of the throne room clicked shut, Dimitri sighed.

“You should join the others,” he said without looking up.

Most would accept that as a dismissal. But Gilbert, and, more importantly, Byleth’s own heart, had made sure that wasn’t an option.

“I’d say the same to you,” Byleth replied.

Dimitri chuckled. But the sound was devoid of humour.

“I don’t have much of an appetite these days,” he said.

Byleth knew that. He had watched Dimitri push his food around his plate at mealtimes, in an attempt to distract others from the fact that little made it to his mouth. But it would be useless to lecture him on the importance of three square meals a day. He wouldn’t listen. Better to find the root of the problem.

“What troubles you?” Byleth asked, taking a seat beside Dimitri.

Dimitri rubbed his hands over his face.

“I do not wish to saddle you with any more of my worries,” Dimitri said. “You’ve carried their weight for far too long.”

“It’s not a burden,” Byleth replied.

“It should be.”

It can’t be, Byleth thought. But he dared not speak the words, as damning as they were, aloud.

When Byleth didn’t respond, Dimitri sighed and stretched out his left leg.

“I know you won’t concede,” he said. “Your silence always means as much. It seems unfair, that I take so much and give nothing in return.”

The need to touch him was an itch across Byleth’s skin. He wanted to brush back the hair veiling Dimitri’s face, to intertwine their fingers, to hold him. Tether him to the ground and soothe his doubts.

Instead, Byleth raised a hand to Dimitri’s shoulder. The gesture of a friend.

“Let me help you,” he said.

Dimitri turned his head. Their eyes met. There was something there, something mysterious. But before Byleth could take hold of it, identify it, Dimitri shrugged him away and stood.

“You’re too kind,” he said. “But I alone bear the guilt of my decisions.”

“What guilt?” Byleth asked. “What decisions?”

“You know too well.” Dimitri traversed Garreg Mach in one step, as he paced back and forth through the room. “I forced the army to fight at Gronder. A third of our forces, Byleth. Four thousand men and women. Dead. Leaving barely enough soldiers to proceed, let alone hold any territory won. And I mustered them all to Fhirdiad, left the border unguarded.”

“Garreg Mach and Myrddin are protected by the knights and Ashen Wolves,” Byleth pointed out.

“But without the threat of the Kingdom army, the Empire saw their way to Derdriu. I gave them the Alliance. It’s like ripples in a pond, every command with a worse consequence.”

Dimitri stopped on the Tailtean Plains, hands curled into fists by his sides, shoulders rounded.

“I hoped to finally keep my promise to Dedue,” he said, voice soft but clear in the empty hall. “Instead I send him to his people, to beg for help, to ask them to sacrifice their lives. For me. Again. And I have no choice. We number so few.”

“Before he left, Dedue seemed certain they would respond to your call,” Byleth said, pushing himself up off the step. “And Claude said a lot of the Alliance nobles stand with him. We aren’t alone, Dimitri.”

“That’s not all.”

Dimitri flexed his fingers and turned back towards the throne, towards Byleth.

“The Imperial army is led by Arundel,” he said, his eye focused on the floor. “There is…that is, I have reason to believe he was involved in Duscur. I have suspected it for years. And if my stepmother was an instigator, as Cornelia suggested, then he…”

A chill swept over Byleth as Dimitri trailed off. The Tragedy. He was helpless in the face of the terror associated with that day, the place where it had occurred. There was nothing he could say to make Dimitri’s pain disappear, nothing he could do to change it. Even with power over time.

“During this coming battle,” Dimitri continued, “I will confront one of the enemies I have hunted relentlessly since I was a child. So soon after…”

His voice caught. He cleared his throat before pressing on.

“So soon after I rejected that way of life. What if I lose myself again? What if I…Byleth, what if I fail?”

Byleth’s mouth was dry, making it difficult to reply. But he had to.

“You don’t need to be scared.”

The words sounded empty even to Byleth’s own ears.

Disappointment flashed across Dimitri’s face. He spun away, walked towards Derdriu. Byleth had said the wrong thing. He wasn’t enough.

“It’s foolish,” Dimitri said, with a false laugh. “The chances of me encountering Arundel personally are slim. My place is in the lines of command, not the front, and…”

Dimitri nudged one of the flags with the toe of his boot. It teetered, but righted itself.

“I have thought, almost constantly, about what you said that night at the stables,” Dimitri said. “A reason to live? Something I believe in? I cannot believe that I deserve happiness, after all I have done, but my people, my friends…they do. If I face Arundel, I may…”

Byleth held up a hand.

“Stop,” he said.

Dimitri turned once more, raising his eye to Byleth. In it was a plea, a desperate appeal for consolation, for help.

“You won’t,” Byleth said. “You won’t go back.”

“How can you be sure?” Dimitri whispered.

The desire to touch Dimitri, to give and receive that small comfort, was stronger than ever. It made the small distance between them feel as large as an ocean. Byleth moved, unable to resist its current. He lifted a hand to Dimitri’s face, deciding all at once to chance it, to risk everything.

“I trust you,” he said.

A blush blossomed across Dimitri’s cheeks. Unable to resist, Byleth stroked the reddened skin with his thumb, glad he had forgone gloves that morning. If this was the only time he ever got to touch Dimitri in this way, he would savour it.

Then Dimitri’s hand covered his. Byleth’s breath caught.

“Why?” Dimitri asked.

Even in Byleth’s most fervent, forbidden dreams, he hadn’t imagined this. Hadn’t dared. The low register of Dimitri’s voice, his furrowed brow, his intense expression. Byleth swallowed, delaying. Needing to make it last just a moment more.

“Byleth,” Dimitri said. “Why?”

Giving in, Byleth shuffled forward. Then he paused. He had to give Dimitri the chance to walk away. A last opportunity to flee. Not back to what they had been—it was too late for that. To something new and horrible, something that might destroy Byleth completely.

But Dimitri didn’t flee. His breath hitched, before he closed the distance between them and found Byleth’s lips with his own.

It took Byleth a moment to react. His mind was too busy swearing that it wasn’t possible. But it was, and the kiss made his head spin, his blood burn. His world narrowed to the sensation of Dimitri’s mouth moving clumsily against his, of strong arms encircling his body. Byleth rested his palm against Dimitri’s chest, now needing to tether himself to the ground, and felt hard muscle hidden beneath the soft fabric of Dimitri’s shirt. Just as magnificent, his heart pounding. The ache in Byleth’s own, quiet one was gone; in its place, pure joy.

Byleth pulled back. He needed to clear his head. But Dimitri’s embrace prevented him from going far, and the rush from fading. As they caught their breath, Dimitri rested his forehead against Byleth’s.

“Is this real?” he murmured.

“I don’t know,” Byleth replied.

Dimitri chuckled. The sound was honest and awestruck.

“For how long?” he asked.

Byleth flushed. “Does it matter?”

It felt too embarrassing to admit. Love had been more potent than he had ever expected, so quick to learn, so unforgiving and stubborn. Ignited by a trifling smile cast in his direction, inexplicably shy and uncertain. Fuelled by each new one that followed, until in the space of a mere fortnight, Byleth had known he would do anything for the bearer of that smile.

“For me,” Dimitri said, seemingly unconcerned by Byleth’s evasive answer, “I’ve spent weeks…no, moons. After Fhirdiad, you, the memory of you—it was the only reprieve I found. You were the only one who never blamed me. But after you returned, I realised that you are so much more, so much better, than the vapid ghost I had constructed. You are warm and good and kind. Solid. As far back as Myrddin, I had to force myself to stop caring, stop hoping. I convinced myself that you could never feel this way for me. And yet…”

Dimitri drew back to caress Byleth’s face.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Do you…do you want this? Do you think you could love me, despite everything I’ve done?”

Still, after everything, Dimitri believed there was no goodness in him. It hurt to know that, when Byleth could see so much worthy of redemption.

“Dimitri,” Byleth said, catching his hand, “I do. At least, I want to try. To figure this out, together.”

Dimitri closed his eye and tightened his hold on Byleth.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Gods, Byleth. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who has read my oneshot _A Marriage Based on Love_ , this was originally a oneshot that grew out of a scene in that story. However, in the drafting it became a monster and here we are. In any case, if you would like a preview of where this is going, the oneshot is the place to go. The story will continue onto events after the scene described in that fic.
> 
> And shout out to Skyheart who read through the first few chapters and gave feedback!


	2. guilt

There was an archery range in the gardens of Castle Derdriu, a private practice yard for bearers of Riegan’s Crest. It was there that Byleth found Dimitri. He was standing at right angles to the targets Claude had left scattered across the field, Failnaught in hand. As Byleth crossed the range, making sure to stay behind the draw line, Dimitri retrieved an arrow from the bucket at his feet and put it to the bowstring. Focussing his attention on a straw dummy at the centre of the range, he lifted Failnaught and drew.

The prince rarely handled a bow in battle, but it wasn’t for lack of skill. The placement of his fingers on the string was precise and his stance matched Ashe’s for perfection. His back and arms shifted gently as he adjusted his aim, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He was beautiful. And he was _Byleth’s_.

It still, after four weeks, felt miraculous. Byleth had never thought, not once, that he would be the object of someone’s love. That he would love that person in return. It was magnificent. He felt a sudden and sharp urge to find his father and brag about his good fortune.

That was quickly followed by a poisonous ache, deep in Byleth’s chest. He couldn’t. He couldn’t speak with his father. Sometimes the desire was so strong that he forgot, just for a second. Every time, the remembering hurt as much as the initial loss.

Byleth crossed his arms, cradling the journal he had brought from Duke Riegan’s library against his body. What would Jeralt’s reaction be to Dimitri as a son-in-law? Raised eyebrows? A wry smile? He might shrug and predict it wouldn’t last. Bring up the women in Aegir and Enbarr, the man in Gloucester. But those relationships, in the tradition of the ongoing, transactional type that travelling mercenaries were fond of, had existed to scratch an itch. Byleth had never felt for those people what he felt for Dimitri.

Perhaps Jeralt would advise Byleth not to get involved with a noble.

Well, it was too late for that.

The bowstring thrummed as Dimitri released it. Byleth held his breath, turning his gaze to the straw dummy, expecting the shaft to blossom out of its chest. It didn’t. Several feet to the left of the target, it dug into the ground.

Sighing heavily, Dimitri lowered Failnaught.

“I doubt I’ll ever be able to shoot properly again,” he said as he turned to Byleth. Byleth couldn’t tell if the smile he wore was genuine or hiding his disappointment. “Not that it really matters. I never pursued archery outside the hunt anyway.”

“You can retrain,” Byleth said.

Dimitri favoured his right side, both hand and eye, when shooting. But it wasn’t uncommon for archers to learn to use their non-dominant side, especially after an accident or injury. Often they were able to achieve results as good as before.

But Dimitri shook his head. He lifted Failnaught and studied it, running a hand over the contours of its limbs, his thumb over the Crest stone. The bow remained dead, its sombre grey disquieting after the way it had glowed in Claude’s hands during the battle for Derdriu, three days earlier.

“There isn’t enough time,” Dimitri said. “Anyway, it’s too late to mourn the loss of my sight, and over such a silly thing. I can still use a lance. But I had thought to bear the burden of this Relic myself rather than pass it on. I cannot give it to Ashe. Without a Crest…the risk is too great.”

“What about Felix? He could wield it.”

“It would have been better if Claude had joined us.”

Byleth found it impossible to disagree. Neither of them had expected Claude to leave Fódlan for good, turning Failnaught and the Alliance both to the Kingdom’s care. But Byleth took it one step further: it had been selfish for him to drop his responsibilities on Dimitri’s shoulders. Guilt already consumed enough of their lives.

Unable to offer words that would fix the situation, Byleth went to Dimitri, adjusting the journal he carried into one hand. He raised the other to Dimitri’s shoulder for balance as he stood on his toes to kiss him. Dimitri smiled when Byleth drew back, but his eye darted towards the entrance of the archery range.

The gesture didn’t bother Byleth. After all, he had been the one to suggest they keep their relationship a secret. At first, it had been to avoid their friends’ advice and interference while they navigated the newness of it. Then, it had become apparent that the middle of a war was not the time for such announcements. It was selfish to speak of their personal happiness in the face of their friends’ grief. For one, Felix wasn’t coping well with his father’s death; Annette was the only one who could calm him. Then there was Ashe, whose slow recovery had forced him to remain in Fhirdiad while the army marched into the Alliance. Any given day, Mercedes could be found hidden in a corner alone, crying for a lost patient. And just now, Byleth had left Linhardt in Duke Riegan’s library, composing yet another letter that would go unanswered, clutching Caspar’s miniature in his hand.

Yes, it was better to keep it a secret, for now.

Byleth stepped backwards, breaking all contact with Dimitri, and opened the journal to the page he had bookmarked, featuring a map in coloured inks.

“I found something,” he said, holding it out. “What do you think?”

Dimitri took the journal and wandered over to the bench behind the draw line. He leaned Failnaught against it and took a seat. Byleth watched in silence as he studied the map, noting his reactions—confusion, realisation, disbelief. Finally, Dimitri lowered the journal, resting his elbows against his spread knees with the journal open in his hands.

“This is Merceus,” he said. “But it’s wrong.”

Byleth crouched down in front of Dimitri and pointed to a section of the stronghold’s outer wall.

“It’s an underground tunnel,” he said. “Here, and here as well.”

“There’s no record of them on any of our maps.”

“This journal was kept by someone called Riegan,” Byleth said. “It’s dated to 795. Two years after the fortress was completed. And it says the map’s copied from one in the Imperial register. Leicester was still part of the Empire then, so it’s not crazy to think that a descendant of Riegan, one of the Ten Elites, would’ve had access to such information.”

“But to make a copy?”

“The Leicester Rebellion happened a few years later. Maybe the seeds were already planted? But regardless, it makes sense. How else could Merceus have survived those sieges, as long as they were, without a way to get food inside?”

Dimitri glanced over the map again.

“If this is true, it could turn the tables,” he said.

“We should ask Yuri to investigate.”

Dimitri curled his fingers on the edges of the journal, then snapped it shut with a sigh.

“He’d do it for you.”

The words were uttered with something almost like…resentment. Byleth frowned. There was no doubt that Yuri was reluctant to trust Dimitri. When they were together, the two of them spoke through Byleth rather than to each other. It had been that way for years—from the time Yuri had started crashing the Blue Lions’ classes. But Byleth hadn’t realised it bothered Dimitri.

He put his hand on Dimitri’s knee.

“You’re upset by that,” he said. Lightly, in case it was something he didn’t want to discuss.

Dimitri placed the journal on the bench beside him, averting his gaze.

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice soft and embarrassed. “I fear this is another of my character flaws. I’ve seen you with Yuri, and sometimes I can’t bear the thought of how he…of you being that close to someone else.”

Byleth blinked. Dimitri was jealous of Yuri? Because of—

There was a simple way to fix that, Byleth thought. He swung to his knees, ignoring the familiar twinge in his left one, and straightened so that their eyes were level. Dimitri swallowed, his gaze darting towards Byleth’s mouth. That made Byleth grin as he shuffled forward between Dimitri’s legs.

“Yuri’s a friend,” Byleth said. “Nothing more. You’re the one I want.”

This time, for the first time, Byleth rejected being tender, or chaste. He had been until now because Dimitri was inexperienced, cautious. But this time, Byleth tempted and teased until Dimitri surrendered, opening his mouth and responding with a shy hunger that was so perfectly him. Desire swept through Byleth’s body. He _did_ want Dimitri. This wasn’t enough. He was overly aware of Dimitri’s fingers, wandering over his shoulders and back, unsure what to do. Or, perhaps, searching for something more.

The thought made Byleth brave. He slid the hand resting on Dimitri’s knee up his thigh.

Dimitri lurched backwards, shoving Byleth away at the same time.

“Dimitri?” Byleth yelped, throwing his arms out to catch himself, gravel digging into his palms.

Dimitri looked at Byleth in horror, his face pale, chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered. He closed his eye and dropped his head into his hands, a fierce blush spreading across his face. “I’m sorry. I…”

“No,” Byleth said, reaching out.

Dimitri flinched when Byleth’s fingertips brushed his arm.

“Please don’t touch me,” he gasped.

Byleth sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Tell me what I can do. Please, Dimitri.”

Dimitri didn’t respond, didn’t look up. In the space of a few moments, he seemed to have shrunk in stature, his shoulders hunched forward, his legs drawn together. He was shaking. His fingers twisted under the strap of his eye patch, digging into his skin.

Byleth remained where he was, frozen. The kiss repeated in his mind, the moment when Dimitri had pushed him aside amplified. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew he had caused it. That frightened him.

“I’m here, Mitya,” Byleth said, again and again, unable to offer anything else.

Over time, Dimitri’s breathing slowed. His hands relaxed against his face. Neither of them moved in the subsequent silence, which seemed shockingly loud now the thunder of panic had passed. Byleth didn’t dare speak, terrified that he what he had done was awful, unforgiveable.

Eventually, Dimitri drew a deep breath and lowered his hands.

“It’s not you,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry, Byleth. Nothing has changed. But they rage at me, day and night. They are angry, so angry, about what I’ve done.”

Byleth clenched his fists. “Your parents?”

“My parents, yes, but…”

Dimitri scoffed, his derision obviously directed at himself. His single eye darted about, looking anywhere but at Byleth.

“I should explain,” he said. “Just before I turned fourteen, there was someone I liked. When I found out he felt the same way, I was overjoyed. He kissed me for the first and only time in the shadows of the carriages that…that took us to Duscur.”

A numbness overtook Byleth’s thoughts. He pushed the journal aside and lifted himself up onto the bench.

“Both of you?” he ventured.

“Yes. Me and Glenn.”

Glenn. The name circled in Byleth’s mind, accompanied by the painful realisation of why Dimitri invoked it instead of those of the other knights who had died that day. He had always assumed it was because Glenn was Felix’s brother. But for this to be the reason…

Byleth dropped his hands to his lap, unsure how he was supposed to respond, what he was supposed to do.

“I know what you must be thinking,” Dimitri said, turning towards him, edging away at the same time. “Ingrid. Ingrid was engaged to him. We planned to break the news to her when we returned to Fhirdiad, especially since Sylvain and Felix already knew. But afterwards, Sylvain made me promise to never tell her. He said it didn’t matter anymore and would break her heart to know.”

“No, Mitya,” Byleth whispered. He hated that Dimitri felt guilty for something as innocent as young love—that Sylvain had forced him into silence, isolating him in his grief.

“But since then,” Dimitri continued, as though Byleth hadn’t interrupted, “it’s…that is…you need to understand. I…my body…it is a tool. A weapon to be used and disposed of. Or at least, it has been, since that day.”

Dimitri reached out. He flexed his fingers, then laced them between Byleth’s. Byleth drew in a breath, finding reprieve in that small action.

“They’re always there, whispering,” Dimitri said. “And the idea of love, for me, it…it infuriates them. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve good things.”

“And this,” Byleth said slowly, after a pause, “this is what has been going through your mind every time we kiss?”

Dimitri hung his head. “For a moment, that moment in Fhirdiad, I dared to dream differently,” he said. “But yes. It is. I’m so sorry, Byleth.”

It was too much information. Byleth squeezed Dimitri’s hand to buy a moment. He needed time alone, to sift through it, to figure out what it all meant, to rearrange his understanding of their relationship. Dimitri was inexperienced, but not cautious, not tentative. He was fearful. Guilt-ridden.

“Your Highness?”

At the call, Byleth rose from the bench. They had a minute to compose themselves before Sylvain appeared in the entrance to the archery range. He wore his armour and the Lance of Ruin was strapped across his back, its head writhing with its proximity to a bearer of Gautier’s Crest. He was followed by Dedue, in his armour and the colours of Duscur.

“Found you,” Sylvain said. “You too, By.”

Sylvain regarded each of them carefully as he spoke, spending too long on Dimitri, before zeroing in on Failnaught.

“Testing it out?” he asked, slight venom in his voice. Sylvain, more than anyone else in the army, had expressed curiosity about the fate of the abandoned Relic. It was no surprise considering what had happened to his brother Miklan.

Dimitri cleared his throat and rested a hand on Failnaught’s recurve.

“It will be sent to Fhirdiad and placed under guard,” he said. “I’ll not take it to Enbarr. Nor will any of my soldiers.”

Sylvian grinned. “Glad to hear it,” he said, before deferring to Dedue.

“We’ve come to report,” Dedue said. “The army is ready to march. Ingrid sends her greetings, and we bid you farewell.”

“We’ll see you at Garreg Mach,” Sylvain added.

Dimitri stood to accept Sylvain’s arm.

“Travel safe,” he said. “We’ll be only a few days behind.”

He turned to Dedue, lingering a little longer over their goodbye, clapping a hand against his shoulder.

“Don’t set a foot outside Derdriu until the Roundtable confirms its support,” Sylvain said. “In battalions. Dozens of them.”

“I’d be best to leave such negotiations up to your father when he arrives, but I’ll try,” Dimitri replied.

Dedue, meanwhile, turned to Byleth with a serious expression.

“I’m entrusting His Highness to your care,” he said. “I know I can count on you.”

Byleth forced himself to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Stay safe.


	3. discretion

Margrave Gautier’s arrival in Derdriu, only a day after the army left, sparked a relay of negotiations with Leicester’s noble houses. What Claude had made sound so simple—putting the Kingdom and the Alliance back together—was in truth a complex task. The two countries had not been formally at war, so instruments of surrender weren’t required, but the agreements of union matched the former for intricacy and their contents were just as controversial.

Byleth was useless in such discussions. Present him a clash between three armies and insurmountable odds, and he would carve a victory. Give him an impregnable fortress and he would break down its walls (he hoped). But arguments about citizenship, government, grants of nobility, made his head spin. While Dimitri and Felix nodded along to the Alliance lords’ arguments, their ease with the discussion evident; while the Margrave took copious notes before rising to his feet and making a statement so detailed, so elegant as to disgrace even Rhea, Byleth became hopelessly lost in the barrage of words. He had to fight the urge to sink down into his chair and, preferably, oblivion.

So it came as a relief when, after the third day’s session, Margrave Gautier pulled Dimitri, Felix and Byleth aside and said, “With the compromises agreed today, I can finalise the agreement. Your Highness, and Byleth, are required for the preparations to march on the Empire. You should return to Garreg Mach.”

“What about the reinforcements?” Felix asked. “We can’t defeat the Empire without them.”

The Margrave stroked his beard, glancing at the door through which the Alliance lords had departed.

“Leave that to me,” he said. “By the time you reach Merceus, Leicester’s support will be secure. We will march to Enbarr as one.”

Dimitri nodded. “I am putting my faith in you.”

The Margrave bowed. “I will not fail you, Your Highness.”

At dawn the following day, Dimitri led the way out of Derdriu, Felix on his right, Byleth on his left, and his dedicated squad of soldiers following. With such small numbers they made good time, reaching the Edgar River long before sunset. They set up camp in the shelter of some trees on the riverbank, the soldiers erecting tents for Dimitri and Felix while Byleth wandered down to study the water. They had plenty of supplies, but nothing beat freshly caught fish.

Dimitri joined Byleth as he watched the current. From the corner of his eye, he saw the prince glance over his shoulder in the direction of the camp, then fold his arms together, clumsily, as though it was not what he wanted to do. It wasn’t Byleth’s preference either. With Dimitri this close, his palms itched. But no—he mustn’t. He couldn’t.

“You won’t set up your tent?” Dimitri asked softly.

Byleth sometimes slept in his tent, sometimes not. And he always built it himself, even though his status as a commander meant there were plenty of people to do it for him. This behaviour had become famous as another of his quirks, one he sometimes overheard soldiers discussing. Not that he minded. He found the habits of his mercenary years comforting and gossip rarely bothered him anyway.

As for this night, the sky was clear and the air warm. Byleth fancied sleeping under the stars.

“I’ll sleep by the fire,” he said.

“Ah.”

Was the disappointment in Dimitri’s voice imagined? Byleth wasn’t sure. He decided not to ask.

Instead, he crouched down and visually measured the distance between the shore and what remained of a flooded tree. There would probably be fish lurking in its protection.

“Well,” Dimitri said, breaking the silence, “what do you suppose you can catch here? Gar? Bullhead? Gustave once taught me how to make a fireside version of swift fish gratin.”

Byleth smiled. “This water’s too cold for gar or bullhead,” he said gently. “They’re mostly found south of the Airmid. Here you’re more likely to come across trout. Less appetising to noble tastes, I know, but still satisfying.”

“I see.”

The two words were drawn out, in that way Dimitri spoke when he was embarrassed. Byleth looked up at him.

“It’s not common knowledge,” he said. “At least, not outside anglers.”

Dimitri rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ve never been particularly interested in fishing,” he admitted.

Byleth pushed on his knees to stand. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“But you enjoy it. I should learn.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Byleth said, turning to Dimitri. “You’re perfect as is.”

A tinge of red flushed across Dimitri’s cheeks and he glanced towards the camp again. Byleth followed suit. With the bulk of the work finished, Felix was tending to his sword by one of the two campfires, while the soldiers were gathered together around the other.

“Byleth,” Dimitri said, drawing his attention back, “we haven’t had the opportunity to discuss what happened in Derdriu.”

Byleth shifted his weight and stumbled, water sloshing around his heel. Dimitri grabbed his arm and tugged, pulling him back onto solid ground.

“Are you all right?” Dimitri asked, lingering over his hold on Byleth’s wrist.

“Yes,” Byleth said.

He retrieved his arm as he saw Mila, the squad’s sergeant, approaching. Dimitri had time enough to frown in question before Mila spoke.

“Your Highness.”

Dimitri turned. Mila stopped several feet away and stood to attention. People always gave Dimitri ample space when interrupting his conversations. It was probably the only thing that had saved their secret until now.

“What can I help you with, Mila?” Dimitri asked.

“If you could give your approval to tomorrow’s route, sir.”

“I’ll leave you,” Byleth said quickly.

Dimitri’s expression was conflicted but, ultimately, he nodded. Byleth circled around Mila, acknowledging her salute as he fled towards the camp. He quickly located his saddlebags beside the fire Felix had claimed and dug through them for his fishing kit. His rod was at the monastery, but there were plenty of likely branches scattered across the ground. All he needed was some line, a hook and bait.

After choosing a branch, Byleth sat across from Felix, who continued to work without acknowledging him. He prepared his makeshift rod in matching silence. When Dimitri returned from the riverbank, he feigned concentration while threading the hook. Dimitri sighed and left. Guilt twisted in Byleth’s gut, but he didn’t give into it. He couldn’t face any conversation that might expose his muddied feelings about what had happened in the gardens at Derdriu. He’d much prefer the peace of a cast line at sunset.

Dusk fell without a single bite and Byleth gathered his gear by the last light. His return to camp was heralded by disappointed groans from the soldiers. He shrugged and apologised as Mila, the squad’s best cook, passed him a bowl of root stew.

While Byleth ate, he watched Dimitri and Felix across the way. They sat opposite each other without speaking. Occasionally, one of the soldiers glanced at them anxiously, their taut silence clearly catching.

“It’s a shame,” Mila said, warming her hands over the fire.

Byleth took the last spoonful of stew as he turned to her. Its taste was earthy, something like what his father had used to make. He wondered what mix of seasoning Mila had used, knowing she carried a small collection of spice jars similar to the ones his father had owned. Alois had those now.

“I didn’t serve the royal family before the king’s death,” Mila continued, “but I’ve heard plenty stories about how His Highness and Lord Fraldarius were once good friends.”

Byleth dropped his spoon in his empty bowl.

“They’ve been like this as long as I’ve known them,” he said.

Mila shook her head. “It’ll be a loss for the Kingdom if they stay at odds with each other. But what can be done?”

What indeed. Byleth got up and rinsed his bowl in the bucket of water fetched earlier by one of the soldiers. He passed the utensils back to Mila, who thanked him, before retrieving his fishing gear from the ground.

“You didn’t catch anything,” Felix said as he approached.

Byleth returned his kit to his saddlebags and sat down, cross-legged, on one of the fire’s empty sides.

“Unfortunately not,” he said.

“Tomorrow evening, let’s spar instead,” Felix suggested. “It’s a more useful way to pass the time.”

Dimitri lifted his head. The firelight reflected off the treated leather of his eye patch. Together with the night’s shadows, it made him look menacing.

“May I join?” he asked.

Felix’s mouth twisted. He picked up a twig and tossed it into the fire.

“If you must.”

Dimitri looked back at the flames, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I will not trouble you.”

Felix snorted. “So tonight you’re a man. Tell me, is this the real you, or are you the animal that slaughtered Arundel?”

It was the first any of them had spoken of what had happened to end the battle for Derdriu. Byleth’s attention darted to Dimitri, worried at what the sudden mention of it would incite. But Dimitri only sighed.

“So this is what has been bothering you,” he said.

Felix bared his teeth. “You ran the man through three times over. He was dead at the first.”

“He had you cornered. If I had not intervened…”

“You shouldn’t have been there. You were supposed to be at the command tent. And now,” Felix added, throwing his arms out behind him and leaning on them, “your suspicions over his involvement in the Tragedy can never be confirmed or refuted. Well done.”

Dimitri curled his fingers into his palms. “You’re right, Felix. I let my desire to know the truth overwhelm me and it ended badly. But you must understand, my father, my friends…”

He glanced in Byleth’s direction, but not at him.

“Glenn.”

Felix growled and pushed himself off the ground. Dimitri tilted his head to continue looking at him.

“They all meant a great deal to me,” he persisted. “If I don’t shoulder the anguish and regret they must feel, who will?”

“The dead don’t care about your loyalty,” Felix said, brushing the dirt off his coat. “Not even Glenn. What a load of bunk. You’re just serving your own ego.”

Dimitri watched Felix stalk over to the soldiers' fire. At length, he turned back to their own and stared at it, looking lost. Byleth’s arms felt heavy. He couldn’t take Dimitri in them with half a dozen soldiers a stone’s throw away.

After a further minute or two, Dimitri shook his head and rose.

“I’ll retire,” he said. “Keep the fire lit. I don’t want you to get sick.”

Byleth flicked the hem of Dimitri’s cloak and smiled up at him.

“Sleep well, Mitya,” he said.

Dimitri gave a faint smile in return before disappearing into his tent.

* * *

Byleth woke in the night to a terrible sound. It was a wailing, a broken keen. He reached for the Sword of the Creator, which always lay beside him as he slept, before glancing around the camp. Many of the other soldiers were also awake, and none hiding it. Some were engaged in whispered conversations, others were silent with their mouths set in thin lines. Mila lay on the other side of the fire facing Byleth, her head resting on her hand but with her eyes wide open.

Byleth relaxed his hand on the Sword's hilt and sat up. The soldier who'd been assigned watch was crouching nearby, his hands folded. He eyed Byleth and nodded towards Dimitri’s tent.

“It’s coming from in there,” he said.

Byleth shoved his coat aside and scrambled to his feet. But when he moved towards the tent, someone caught his arm. He turned his head, prepared to lash out at whoever was keeping him from Dimitri. It was Felix, clad in only his undershirt and leggings, his face appearing paler than usual due to the dark hair framing it. Byleth’s surprise at seeing him soothed his anger.

“Don’t,” Felix said, amber eyes glowing in the firelight.

His statement and grip were firm but, for once, not at all aggressive. Nonetheless, his voice broke the spell and Byleth tried to break free.

“He needs help,” he said.

Felix’s fingers only tightened. He pulled Byleth back, his strength greater than his slim build suggested.

“Don’t,” he repeated. “Dimitri wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this.”

“What do you mean? We’ve all seen him like this. All the Blue Lions.”

“Not like _this_ , idiot.” Felix pushed Byleth back to the ground. “Before, he was without shame. Or at least, he shut it away, in a part of his mind that couldn’t be breached. Like that, he could bear to be seen for who he is and not think on it. That’s not the case any more.”

Byleth bit the inside of his cheek, hard, so it hurt enough to overpower the pain in his chest. The keen coming from Dimitri’s tent was now punctuated by groans and shouts. Then it eased, before morphing into a choked sob and, finally, muffled weeping. On the other side of the fire, Mila closed her eyes and turned her face against her hand.

“Felix, please,” Byleth whispered.

Felix dropped beside Byleth, crossing his ankles and catching his legs within the circle of his arms.

“I’ve known him far longer than you have,” he said. “Trust me on this.”

The desire to break the secret, immediately, was devastating. Felix wouldn’t tell the others, surely, and the soldiers could be sworn to silence. They all loved Dimitri. But loyalty reminded Byleth that he wasn’t free to make that decision alone. The suggestion had been his, but he and Dimitri had made the agreement together.

Byleth lifted his knees to his chest and rested his forehead against them, before lacing his fingers together in his hair and using his wrists to stop his ears.

* * *

When Dimitri emerged in the morning, his face was drawn, his eyes puffy. Nonetheless he smiled, at Mila, at Felix, at the other soldiers, and bid them good morning. He crossed the camp and took a seat beside Byleth. Aware of the half-dozen pairs of eyes trained in their direction, Byleth continued to carve at his apple. He lifted a small piece to his mouth before offering Dimitri a chunk with the tip of the knife.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I slept poorly,” Dimitri sighed, taking the apple. “Were you warm enough, sleeping by the fire?”

Byleth nodded. If he tried to speak again, his voice would betray him.

“I’m glad. Sergeant!”

Mila straightened, her hand mechanically raising to a salute.

“How long will it take us to break camp?” Dimitri asked.

“A half-hour, sir, if we get to it,” Mila replied.

“Very well. Let’s be quick. If we hurry, we might catch the army on the road.”

“At your command, Your Highness.”

Mila spun and began to bark orders. Felix slipped into his tent, probably to fetch his things before they dismantled it. As the rest of the soldiers turned to their tasks, Byleth reached out and squeezed Dimitri’s knee. Dimitri brushed his fingers over Byleth’s hand, before he pushed himself up and returned to his tent, the apple still uneaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive any strange statements about fishing in this and future chapters. I'm researching, but prior to this story my knowledge was extremely limited and it pretty much remains so. Anyone with experience, feel free to share your expertise; I would actually very much appreciate it. With apologies for such errors made, thank you very much for reading, and for the amazing and kind reviews and kudos.


	4. love

“You never tire, do you?”

Byleth lifted his quill from the page and looked up, muttering the result of the equation to himself in an attempt to hold it in his mind. But the number died on his lips when he saw Dimitri standing by the pillar that separated the library from the sparring ground of the knights’ hall. Back when they were in Fhirdiad, the Seneschal had suggested that one of Lambert’s old uniforms be refitted to the prince. He claimed that they needed to divorce him from stories of the one-eyed demon and restore the image of a Blaiddyd king, of Loog himself, strong, honourable and chivalric. At the time, both Dimitri and Byleth had been sceptical. Although the uniform was retrieved, the alterations had not begun until their return to Garreg Mach Monastery.

Now, with the result standing before him, Byleth realised he had been a fool to doubt the Seneschal. The blue and gold military tunic hugged Dimitri’s broad shoulders and tapered down over his waist, finishing at the thigh. A sword belt was casually knotted around his hips, a gentleman’s rapier hanging from the frog. Completed with dark, gold-braided trousers, leather gloves and gleaming boots, the entire ensemble was majestic. Forgot the Seneschal’s original intention of raising morale; looking like that, Dimitri would be able to convince a soldier to follow him into a dragon’s den to steal its eggs.

On top of that, it made Byleth want him more than ever.

These days he felt more and more like the little wyvern from his father’s stories, the one who wanted to play with a wasp’s nest. Every time he saw Dimitri, his mind conjured more detailed pictures, more fantastic scenarios—particularly the type that were torment when alone in bed. It was a curse, nourished by the lure of the forbidden. Forbidden because after Derdriu, after the events on the road back to the monastery, Byleth had promised. He had promised himself and he had promised Dimitri, in his thoughts if not aloud. He wouldn’t risk awakening the ghosts or causing Dimitri unnecessary pain.

“You’ve come from the camp?” Byleth guessed, forcing his thoughts away from all that.

Dimitri nodded. “The army is prepared to march. And yet you’re calculating the numbers. Again.”

Byleth looked at Riegan’s journal, lying open on the low table in front of him. They had never returned it to the library. It was too valuable.

“We can’t be too careful,” he said. “Everything is so uncertain. I wish Yuri had agreed to send word.”

It had been five days since Yuri led the Abyssians, Hapi and Ashe among their number, out of Garreg Mach to infiltrate the Empire via Hrym. By now they should have started disrupting the supply lines through to Aegir and beyond. Their mission was the only chance the Kingdom army had of weakening the forces at Merceus before the siege.

But Yuri had agreed on one condition: he would not make any reports back. He had said it was too dangerous for his people, that a single intercepted message was enough for the enemy to locate them. He would not put his people in unnecessary danger. So there was no way of knowing whether they had even made it past the border.

Although there was no one more suited to the job than Yuri and his gang, Byleth found not knowing if they were dead or alive was more stressful than possibility of the supply lines not being cut (regardless of the success of this mission, they could still mount a siege). On top of that, he was concerned about Ashe. The wound across his stomach, so recently healed, could reopen. And if Hapi got hurt, or worse, when they were so close to uncovering the truth of her imprisonment, perhaps finding a way to help her control her strange power…

Dimitri stepped between the sheets of parchment scattered across the floor to take the seat beside Byleth.

“Yuri said he can handle it,” he said.

Byleth snorted, remembering his and Yuri’s altercation with the double-crosser from the gang five years earlier.

“I’ve never heard that before,” he muttered.

Dimitri regarded him with a confused frown. Byleth glanced at the map of Merceus to cover his mistake. He’d forgotten that Dimitri didn’t know about those particular expeditions into the deepest depths of Fódlan’s underground.

When Byleth put his quill back to paper to start the calculations over, Dimitri stopped him by covering his hand. Byleth froze, surprised by the softness of his leather glove, so different to the heavy, rough materials of a mercenary’s gear. It suddenly occurred to Byleth that he could never, not even if he had every piece of gold from his life as a sword-for-hire, afford a pair of gloves that fine. They even bore intricate, embroidered details across the back—oak leaves, the symbol of wisdom and courage.

“You should rest,” Dimitri said. “You’ve done everything you can. That’s enough.”

Byleth hesitated, then let the quill fall to the table. Dimitri released a pleased huff, which morphed into a question when Byleth took his covered hand between both of his.

“Byleth?”

Byleth lifted one leg onto the couch so he could face Dimitri. He pinched the tip of the glove’s forefinger, then glanced up. Dimitri looked puzzled, but did not speak. So Byleth continued, tugging on each finger in turn before drawing the glove off entirely. The leather glided over Dimitri’s skin, revealed to be surprisingly free of callouses. Byleth, in comparison, had several. He was plagued in particular by a large and recurring one on the heel of his right hand, where the grip of the Sword of the Creator tended to rub when he fought.

But callouses were not what Byleth was looking for. He turned Dimitri’s hand to reveal the discoloured, mottled scar on his thumb. It meandered across the web and travelled up the side of his forefinger. Its pair, which spread across Dimitri’s right palm and crept down his inner wrist, was larger, but this one was eye-catching, distinctive.

The first time Byleth had seen the scars, on a particularly hot day that drove Dimitri to strip off his gauntlets after weapons training, he had been more confused than anything else. He could not imagine how a crown prince had suffered the sort of injury most commonly found amongst peasant children who had overturned boiling cauldrons or touched hot ovens. Surely a prince had no need to go anywhere near a kitchen. And then, he had wondered why Dimitri always covered them, even when he took notes in class. Scars were nothing to be ashamed of; in fact, Byleth had been under the impression that in Faerghus, they were venerated. It had been weeks, moons, before the riddle—the Tragedy, the fires, the king’s death—had unravelled in his mind.

A swell of emotion compelled Byleth to raise Dimitri’s hand to his mouth and kiss the scar. Dimitri drew in a sharp breath.

“It’s not enough,” Byleth said, running his thumb over the place he had kissed. “It’s not enough until this doesn’t haunt you anymore.”

Dimitri tilted Byleth’s chin up with his other hand.

“Please don’t tell me you do all this for my sake,” he said. “I’m not worth it.”

Byleth held his tongue, knowing the answer would not be well received. He would do anything for Dimitri. Sometimes that scared him.

As frequently happened when Byleth didn’t respond, Dimitri frowned. Byleth wondered what thoughts lay behind that. Did he want someone better at feeling, at explaining a mess of emotions? Less frightened of them? Compared to Dimitri, and his eloquence and expression, Byleth felt stunted. Incapable. He would never measure up.

“Beloved,” Dimitri said.

Byleth’s heart jumped into his throat. Dimitri had not used a term of endearment like that before, something equivalent to Mitya, which Byleth had used in private ever since the horrible day in Derdriu. But this one was marvellous.

“Beloved,” Dimitri repeated, as though savouring the taste of the word. Then he leaned forward and kissed Byleth.

Byleth closed his eyes. Just a moment. He would allow himself a moment, a small indulgence. Then, as they paused for breath, Byleth felt Dimitri’s smile against his lips. A timid touch trailed down his neck, his chest, to stop at his hip and rest there, no, to dig into his flesh.

“You’re mesmerising,” Dimitri whispered. “I want…”

The word hung in the air, the phrase unfinished, promising so much. Byleth opened his eyes, eager for what came next. And he saw a flash of teal and white disappear out the door. His stomach twisted.

“Felix,” he said.

Dimitri frowned. “What?”

“Felix. I think Felix saw.”

It was more a statement of fact than a wish to alarm. Nonetheless, Dimitri paled. He twisted towards the now empty entrance.

“Are you certain?” he asked, glancing back at Byleth.

Byleth nodded.

Dimitri grabbed his glove from where it had fallen on Byleth’s lap. He stood up, pulling it on.

“Wait here,” he said. “Please, wait here.”

With that, Dimitri bolted after his friend.

An uncomfortable, heavy, gurgling feeling weighed on Byleth’s chest. He pushed it away. Not now. He shut the journal and gathered together his calculations, piling them on top of it. With the whole lot under his arm, he left the knights’ hall, glancing both ways as he entered the open air. He couldn’t see Dimitri or Felix. So he wandered towards his room, the same one he had occupied when he was a fake professor instead of the fake head of the church.

Byleth dumped the papers on his desk and threw himself onto the bed, closing his eyes. They marched in the morning. He should rest. There was no point wearing himself out thinking about what had just happened. About Dimitri, chasing after Felix. About Glenn, someone Byleth had never met. A person who was not only Felix’s brother, a Faerghus noble, or one royal guard among many who had died at Duscur. He was Dimitri’s first love. A first love so important he had haunted Dimitri’s dreams for nine years, through to the present day, and set him down a bloody path of revenge. So important he drew those terrible, heartbreaking sounds from the depths of Dimitri’s unconscious mind.

A thump at the door startled Byleth. He dropped his forearm across his eyes. He knew who it was. He didn’t want to answer. But he got up anyway.

“You left,” Dimitri said.

He was puffing, as though he had run across the monastery.

“I was tired,” Byleth replied.

“Byleth…”

His name was a jolt through his dead heart, a disappointment compared to what had come before. Unable to bear it, Byleth turned back into his room. Dimitri followed, assuming an invitation though none had been given. Nobles.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri said, closing the door behind him. “It was callous to leave you there like that, to go after Felix.”

Byleth dropped onto the bed.

“Did he see?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Byleth nodded in acknowledgement.

“I was worried what he might think,” Dimitri said, sitting beside him.

“That you’re betraying Glenn?” Byleth said, only partly in question.

Dimitri laughed incredulously. “How do you know these things?”

Moons of watching over you, of hearing you whisper your deepest fears, your worse nightmares. But Byleth would never repeat back to Dimitri the things he had heard during those dark times.

“The thought wouldn’t cross Felix’s mind,” he said instead, curling his fingers over the edge of the mattress. “He’s told you as much. That’s not how he works.”

Dimitri smiled sadly and looked towards the floor.

“But it’s how I work,” he murmured.

Byleth closed his eyes, the words like a knife. He was being unfair. He had been rational, once. Before Dimitri had meant so much that to lose him would spur emotions equal to those he had felt when cradling his father’s cold body. He twisted and put his arms around Dimitri, hiding his face against his shoulder.

“Stay with me tonight,” he said. “Just to sleep.”

Without hesitation, Dimitri’s arms wrapped around him.

* * *

Byleth woke with a gasp. A monster, its features fading into shadow, loomed behind his eyelids, the terror it evoked lingering. But when he opened his eyes, he was in his room. The candle was still burning, revealing that it was early in the night. And laying beside him, wide awake and watching him, was Dimitri.

Whatever the dream had been, it was forgotten, as distant as those strange feelings that had plagued him earlier that evening. Waking up beside Dimitri was nice. Even though Byleth’s arm was numb from the weight of his own body, even though he was pressed against the wall because the bed was too narrow for both of them and Dimitri was so large. It was nice.

“How long have you been awake?” Byleth asked.

“A little while.”

“You should sleep.”

Dimitri hummed softly and Byleth closed his eyes. He wondered if he’d ever known peace like this. He was already drifting away again, warm and safe, Dimitri warm and safe beside him.

“Byleth.”

“Hmm?”

There was a long silence. Byleth didn’t mind, happy to stay in it as long as the night lasted.

“I need to tell you something.”

Dimitri bit off the words, breaking Byleth’s peace. He opened his eyes to find Dimitri frowning deeply. Reaching out, he traced a finger along one of the lines on his brow, trying to ease it.

“You can tell me anything, Mitya,” he said.

When Dimitri didn’t continue, Byleth found his hand and laced their fingers together.

“Anything,” he repeated, although a tumbleweed of nerves had taken up residence in his stomach.

Dimitri shifted, moving closer to Byleth so that their foreheads touched. His eyes slipped shut and he breathed in deeply.

“It’s just that…in the last few weeks, I’ve been plagued by a terrible dream,” Dimitri said. “A nightmare.”

“The Tragedy?” Byleth guessed.

He was surprised when Dimitri shook his head.

“No, Byleth. No. It was you. I lost you.”

He opened his eyes and Byleth was caught by the fear in them.

“In the morning we march,” Dimitri said. “Despite our plans, it could all go wrong. So wrong. So before then…”

His grip on Byleth’s hand tightened.

“I know you’ve been holding back because of what happened in Derdriu. I want you to stop. Before everything, before the world falls apart any more than it already has, I want to be with you. If I am condemned to the same hell as my father, I want to at least be able to cherish the memory of your touch.”

Byleth had to look away, his face warm. He had been with other people, yes, but he had never been propositioned quite so elegantly. Quite so effectively. Of course it would be Dimitri who came up with such a speech.

But there were things hidden behind those words to consider.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “The ghosts…”

Byleth trailed off, not quite sure how to finish his question. Dimitri let go of his hand and rolled onto his back, putting himself in danger of toppling off the bed. Byleth propped himself up on his elbow to better see his face. The candlelight flickered, casting the scars around his right eye into relief.

“This is important to me,” Dimitri said slowly, staring at the ceiling. “I want this.”

Byleth ran his thumb over Dimitri’s cheekbone, mulling on those words. There was no reason for his resolve to last beyond them, but he had to be careful. There could be no getting carried away with what he wanted. If they did this, had to be about Dimitri.

Then, as their eyes met, Byleth scoffed at himself. As though that would be difficult, when these cursed feelings threatened to burst from the confines of his body at any moment.

Byleth leaned down and kissed him. Dimitri slipped a hand into his hair, welcoming him, capturing him. For a long time Byleth let that be enough, building up the kiss, experimenting with chaste touches over clothing, until Dimitri gasped for air. At that, he averted his focus and traced Dimitri’s jaw with his lips, then diverted down the side of his neck.

“Gods,” Dimitri cursed as Byleth pushed his collar out of the way to nip at his shoulder.

That made Byleth smile against his skin. “If that’s all it takes to impress you,” he teased.

And that was all it took to make Dimitri burn red. Byleth paused in case he had crossed a line, but in the next moment Dimitri pulled him back up and forcefully claimed his lips. Encouraged, Byleth inched a hand under his shirt.

But when he splayed his fingers across the bare skin just above Dimitri’s waistband, Dimitri jolted with what seemed to be alarm rather than pleasure. Byleth removed his hand and lifted himself up to find his lover looking anguished.

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri blurted. “Beloved, I…”

“Mitya,” Byleth interrupted gently. “You can change your mind. Just tell me. Tell me and we’ll stop.”

Dimitri was still for a long minute, then sat up. Byleth copied him, leaning back against the wall.

“It’s rather…overwhelming,” Dimitri said. He raised his eyes to Byleth’s shyly. “Can we, ah, go slowly?”

“Whatever you want,” Byleth replied.

Dimitri put a hand on Byleth’s knee.

“And you too,” he said seriously.

“What?” Byleth asked.

“If you change your mind, promise you’ll tell me.”

If Byleth’s heart had been alive, he thought it would have burst, hearing that, the depth of love and care in it. He stared at Dimitri, unable to find the right words to respond. Dimitri just smiled.

“Beloved?” he asked.

“Yes,” Byleth stammered, shaking his head to force himself back. “Yes, of course.”

Dimitri nodded. He twisted onto his knees and took hold of Byleth’s shirt hem.

“I’m sorry to ask,” he said, “but perhaps we can start here?”

Eager to assist, Byleth raised his arms. He flushed with pleasure when, after drawing the garment over his head, Dimitri studied his bare torso, lips parted slightly, the shirt a crumpled ball in his hands.

“Does this help?” Byleth asked, struggling to stifle his partly nervous, partly amused laugh.

Dimitri turned a darker red. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I believe it does.”

He was laughing too. Byleth slung his arms around Dimitri’s neck and kissed him affectionately, once, twice. And Dimitri’s arms enveloped him, tentatively drawing him closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I will try to keep to my regular schedule for posting this, but I'm currently posting faster than I'm writing (the hazards of working on multiple projects at once). So apologies in advance if the next chapters are released a bit slower. I post previews and updates on [twitter](https://twitter.com/RuneTari) if you want to join me there.


	5. euphoria

Byleth woke as Dimitri attempted to extract himself from his arms. He groaned and held on tighter, nuzzling against his back. Dimitri stilled.

“What’s wrong?” Byleth yawned.

“I must return to my quarters,” Dimitri said.

It was an effort to open his eyes. Once Byleth did, he found the room pitch-black. His surroundings were shaped by touch alone—the coarse bed linen beneath him, the smooth wall at his back. The heat of Dimitri’s body pressed against his.

“It’s still dark,” he said. “Stay a little longer.”

“Dedue will look for me at first light. I do not wish to cause a commotion.”

Byleth sighed and let Dimitri go.

“Go be a prince,” he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

The mattress shifted and a kiss alighted on Byleth’s temple.

“Your Mitya first,” Dimitri whispered. “Always. Go back to sleep, love.”

The second time Byleth woke it was by the sound of the trumpet. He stretched his arms out, then bolted upright as he realised there was room to do so. He searched the room for Dimitri before remembering that he had left in the night.

The memory calming his panic, Byleth fell back onto the pillow. He closed his eyes and laughed. It was near irreverent to feel this contented on the morning they set out for Fort Merceus, but it was hard to think of the reality of the situation after what he and Dimitri had shared—their laughter and clumsiness as much as their pleasure. He had never felt so close to anyone and he wanted to bask in the feeling.

Another trumpet, impossible to ignore, interrupted him: the call to muster. Byleth rose and washed quickly with what water was left in the basin, then donned the jacket and hose he wore under his armour. As he tied the jacket’s laces, he turned to his armour stand. It was stacked with the silver and white armour he would wear as commander of the Knights of Seiros. He stared at it a moment, then sighed and selected the left greave.

The armour took longer to don than his mercenary gear. It had been designed to be put on with the assistance of a squire and Byleth didn’t have (would never have) one of those. But he eventually reached the last piece, a surcoat emblazoned with the Crest of the Order’s namesake. As he wrapped it around his body, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on top of his desk and winced. It was shocking, just as it had been the first time, to see himself in shades he associated with Rhea.

The others who had been present at his fitting had reacted differently, however. Seteth and Flayn had been almost happy to see him wearing it. Alois had been effusive.

“Following in your father’s footsteps,” he’d said, slapping Byleth on the back. “The captain would be proud.”

“Would he?” Byleth had asked.

“Of course! You should’ve seen the way he carried on about you when in his cups! Never known any man to dote so on his child.”

Byleth’s gaze fell on his father’s journal, wedged between a copy of the Book of Seiros and the old tactics primer, as he tied his belt. He wasn’t so certain of his father’s pride.

With his saddlebags packed the day before and his armour on, there was only one thing left to do. Byleth pulled the Sword of the Creator from its wrappings and lifted it with one hand for a last check. The time he devoted to its care daily was visible in the oiled and polished blade, the spotless hilt. Satisfied, he moved to wrap it again.

But as he did so, his attention was caught by the empty space in the centre of the guard. Byleth sank onto his bed and ran a finger around the setting where, as Sothis had once said, something should have been, but was no more. Since his return from oblivion, he had seen many Relics, in the hands of allies and enemies alike. The Sword was the only one without a Crest Stone. Yet it responded to him as Areadbhar did to Dimitri, Thunderbrand to Catherine, Crusher to Annette, and on and on. It made no sense.

The third trumpet of the morning blared. Byleth jumped to his feet, wrapped the Sword and strapped it to his back, where it would remain for the duration of the march. He rested a hand against his father’s journal, took one last look around the room, and left.

* * *

The army was gathered just outside Garreg Mach Town. Byleth led his horse Wyvern through its ranks, nodding at each of the Blue Lions as he passed them and their battalions. He only stopped to receive a report from Alois, who was leading the Knights out in his stead. As an ally of the Kingdom, he was required beside Dimitri for the start of the march.

At the front of the army, Byleth found Gilbert occupied with a final check of his horse’s tack.

“Where’s Dimitri?” he asked.

“His Highness will arrive shortly,” Gilbert replied.

True to Gilbert’s words, moments later a cheer swelled among the soldiers. Dimitri, in full plate and regalia, paraded between them on his white stallion Lion. His armour shone in the sunlight, almost blinding in its brilliance. A magnificent cloak in Blaiddyd blue fell from his shoulders to drape over Lion’s hindquarters. Byleth noticed some of the soldiers reaching out to touch the rich fabric, as though doing so would bring luck.

“Our king,” Gilbert murmured.

Byleth nodded. He felt the same wonder, the same awe, that he had the previous evening in the knights’ hall, the previous month in the gardens at Derdriu. But today, it was accompanied by a desperate desire to grin, a satisfaction that when their eyes met, a flush stained Dimitri’s cheeks. As though he was remembering details of the night, the same ones that caused a fire to race through Byleth’s veins.

The sound of Gilbert mounting his horse drew Byleth back to the present. He raised his right foot to Wyvern’s stirrup and lifted himself over the horse. As the trumpet sounded three short blasts, he fell in line with Dimitri.

The day was good for a march. It was warm, but not humid, and the sky was clear. Byleth turned his face towards the sun, enjoying the friendliness of it on his skin. The sensation was made sweeter by the knowledge that soon the dark and heavy clouds of the Verdant Rain would roll in. Their arrival couldn’t be predicted, but it was all too certain.

As the morning wore on, Byleth let his mind wander, across what might meet them at Merceus, how they would approach the walls, a prayer for Yuri and his gang. His gaze continuously drifted to Dimitri, who was occupied even as they marched with reports from generals and questions from Gilbert. Byleth admired the shine of the sunlight on his hair, the strong set of his shoulders. He remembered their quiet conversations the night before while he had been encased in Dimitri’s arms, his head resting against his chest. Dimitri had spoken about long rides through the wilds outside Fhirdiad, about how he looked forward to them going together. Despite the army behind them, Byleth could almost imagine them on one now, the war as a figment of a fevered imagination.

“Your Majesty,” Gilbert said.

The unfamiliar honorific, and Dimitri’s grimace, drew Byleth from his daydream.

“Gustave, you know I do not wish to be called that,” Dimitri said. “I’m not yet king.”

“You will not permit the wish of an old man? If I fall in the coming battle, I will be denied the opportunity to call you such.”

“Don’t say things like that. If it’s so important to you, live.”

Gilbert looked past Dimitri to Byleth.

“I told you it would be so, did I not?” he said.

Byleth nodded as Dimitri glanced between the two of them.

“Is this yet another joke at my expense?” he asked, resignation heavy in his voice. “Sylvain has been quite unforgiving lately.”

Gilbert chuckled. “Not at all. The professor and I have simply discussed my desire to see you as king in every sense of the word. I predicted that you would be reluctant to be so addressed before your coronation.”

“Then I am astonished that you attempted it,” Dimitri said, shaking his head. “Goddess willing the day will come when I am entitled to that honour, but until then I must ask you to be patient.”

“Very well, Your Highness,” Gilbert said. “But know that myself, the Margrave, the elder knights and lords of the Kingdom, we all look forward to the day we can bend the knee before our rightful ruler. Though aged and weary, we will offer our full support.”

Dimitri threw Byleth an amused look. Byleth knew his thoughts: the Margrave would burst a blood vessel if he heard himself grouped with the elder knights and lords, the aged and weary.

“And after that,” Gilbert, who judging from his smile was lost in happy imaginings of the future, said, “we may anticipate your wedding celebrations.”

The smile faded from Dimitri’s face. Byleth tightened his grip on the reins, an odd discomfort—nerves? hope? —tightening in his chest.

“Gustave,” Dimitri censured, “such talk is premature.”

“You must have considered it, Your Highness,” Gilbert said with a frown. “Surely some young lady has caught your eye before now, one fit to carry the title of queen. A king needs an heir.”

Queen. Heir. The two words slammed into Byleth with the weight of a thousand arrows, while Dimitri forced a laugh.

“Please,” he said, “I cannot entertain such thoughts until this war is over. I owe it to the people to ensure their wellbeing before my own.”

Byleth felt like a fool. Dimitri’s words were belied by the nervous twitch of his hand as he patted Lion’s neck, his exaggerated smile. He had considered the requirement that he provide an heir, father a child. Why had it never occurred to Byleth?

Gilbert tutted, but bowed his head.

“As you wish, Your Highness, although I hope you see fit to give the issue more thought. Part of securing the Kingdom is providing for your succession.”

Byleth drew on Wyvern’s reins to slow him down. He caught Dimitri’s questioning look and in response moved off the road, knowing it would be assumed that he was going to relieve himself. Guilt crept over him at the deception, but he couldn’t bear to listen further. In a few short minutes, Glenn’s spectre had returned, but in a different form. One more threatening for its foundations in traditions and duty and the world of kings and emperors. A world where, Byleth thought, looking down at his gloves, he didn’t necessarily belong.

* * *

They broke the march three hours before sunset. In the familiar routine of setting up camp, Byleth didn’t see Dimitri. He supped with Mercedes, Annette and Linhardt. When Ingrid and Sylvain joined them, he excused himself and returned to his tent. There, he lay awake until the darkness outside grew thick and the night trumpet called the soldiers to rest.

As the last notes of the night song faded, Byleth pulled on a coat and ventured back out into the camp. Before he could get far, a member of the patrol halted him, blinding him with the light of her torch as she demanded his name. But when she saw his face properly, she backed away, saluted and gestured for him to continue. It felt strange to be waved along after suffering so many lectures from his father about breaking curfew.

The walls of Dimitri’s tent were glowing, hinting that its occupant was still awake. After glancing around to make sure there were no witnesses, Byleth leaned close to the door.

“Dimitri,” he called.

Sounds from within the tent warned Byleth to step back before Dimitri pushed the door aside and tugged him through it. While Dimitri fastened the door again, Byleth glanced around the tent. It was loosely furnished with a travel trunk, small desk and chair. A book lay open atop the desk, neat lines penned across half of the left page. Beside it a quill, its nib stained black, was balanced against an open ink bottle. Then Byleth noticed the carpet under his feet, the silk cushions on the sleeping cot. Previously, Dimitri had made use of bare ground and harsh linen bedding, like the rest of the army’s command.

Byleth glanced over his shoulder at the same time Dimitri finished securing the door. He was still wearing his armour’s underclothes, but his eye patch was absent and his hair hung loose around his face. Signs they needn’t fear the appearance of his newly appointed squire.

“I’m so glad you came,” Dimitri said, moving towards Byleth. He smiled, hopefully, warily. “I’ve been thinking about what happened all day. I will tell Gustave about us tomorrow.”

He sounded so certain, so determined, that Byleth didn’t want to respond, to ruin it. But he had to.

“Don’t,” he said.

Dimitri’s smile vanished. “But…you seemed distressed by what he said.”

Byleth turned away and pretended to be interested in the elaborate sheath over Areadbhar’s head. Anything to avoid looking Dimitri in the eye.

“Of course Gilbert thinks you’ll marry a woman,” he said. “It makes sense.”

There was a shuffle of feet behind him and Dimitri’s arms wrapped around Byleth’s shoulders. He leaned into the embrace. It was a comfort, a reminder of the joy he had felt that morning, before it was tainted by the reality of the world they lived in.

“Why should it make sense,” Dimitri said, his breath tickling Byleth’s ear, “when I’m in love with you?”

Byleth exhaled. “Because you’re going to be king.”

Dimitri tensed. Byleth hooked a hand over his forearm, trying to offer a small amount of reassurance.

“I’ve learned enough about your world to know it’s dictated by Crests,” he said. “It’s not hard to figure out that you need to pass yours onto a child.”

At that, Dimitri lifted his weight away. He took hold of Byleth’s shoulders and turned him around. Byleth looked up to meet his eyes, one clouded, one clear, unable to avoid it any longer.

“You know my opinion on that matter,” Dimitri said, not shying away. “I don’t care whether my children bear Crests or not. I’ll love them the same.”

“It matters to your people,” Byleth replied. “And me, with you, makes that an impossibility. Unless…”

He couldn’t say the words. The mere thought of them made him sick to his stomach. But he could see that Dimitri understood. He stared at him for a long time, unmoving, before dropping his hands from Byleth’s shoulders and stepping away towards the desk.

“I have cousins,” he said, brushing his fingers across the page of the book. “Although my ancestry bears the purest connection to the Elite, it is not the only Blaiddyd bloodline.”

“But you’re the Blaiddyd who’s lord commander of this army,” Byleth said. “Gilbert served your grandfather, your father. Now he serves you. He expects that line to continue, and so does everyone else. They’re counting on you to end this war and shape a future afterwards.”

Dimitri shut the book and tapped his fingers against its leather cover in an uneven rhythm. The shadows cast by the torchlight made his expression difficult to read.

“Is this your way of saying,” he said, his voice measured, “that we need to end this?”

Byleth’s breath caught. He surged towards Dimitri and grabbed his hands.

“Goddess, no,” he said. “Never. No, Mitya. But we need to think about this.”

Dimitri wretched his hands free and cupped Byleth’s face, his control crumbling in an instant.

“Beloved,” he pleaded, “I want people to know how I feel about you. Last night was…”

He trailed off and looked away, leaving Byleth to stew in discomfort, to wait, to wonder. What could it possibly mean, that Dimitri was lost for words? After everything, had he changed his mind?

Then he dropped his arms around Byleth’s waist and pulled him closer, holding back only a moment more before kissing him. And from that, Byleth knew that the night before had meant as much to Dimitri as it did to him, and he smiled.

“Me too,” he said. “But—”

Dimitri let him go and turned away.

“Keeping the secret doesn’t change how we feel about each other,” Byleth said, pursuing him towards the cot. “But you aren’t my Mitya first. You’re the Crown Prince. You know that.”

“Why can’t I be both?”

“You can, and you…you are, but let Gilbert keep his dreams of the Kingdom and the monarchy. Let the soldiers hope for better than all this. We kept silent for the sake of our friends, we can do the same for your people.”

Dimitri grimaced at him. A sign he was weakening.

“Now you’re making a Faerghan argument,” he said. “Duty, loyalty. Are you sure you weren’t born in the Kingdom?”

“You know I was born in Remire,” Byleth said.

Dimitri chuckled, and, too late, Byleth realised the nature of the question, that it didn’t require an answer. However, as Dimitri’s expression softened and the tension eased from his shoulders, he decided to let the mistake stand.

“My father and stepmother kept their marriage secret,” Dimitri said thoughtfully, sinking down onto the cot. “It was for the good of the kingdom, to avoid the political implications and scandal.”

He held out a hand. Byleth took it and allowed himself to be drawn down beside him. Dimitri closed his eyes and dropped his head against Byleth’s.

“I don’t want us to have to do the same,” he said.

Byleth squeezed his hand.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Somehow.”

“If we win the war?”

“After we win the war.”

Dimitri nodded. Understanding that as an end to the conversation, Byleth shifted, intending to leave. But Dimitri straightened and wrapped his fingers around his wrist.

“You aren’t staying?”

The disappointment, the unspoken longing in that simple question nearly did Byleth in. He settled back on the cot, angled towards Dimitri.

“I wish I could,” he said. “But tent walls are, um, very thin. And there are patrols.”

Dimitri blushed and let go of Byleth as though burned.

“I see,” he said.

Byleth took a breath, then leaned forward and kissed Dimitri fervently. When he finally drew back, as far as the hand tangled in his hair would allow, he was delighted to see his prince’s dazed look.

“Really have to go now,” Byleth whispered.

Dimitri blinked. “Yes. Yes, that would be best.”

But he demanded one more kiss before releasing him. When Byleth exited the tent, the cooler air outside came as a relief.


	6. despair

Byleth counted the beats of the rain on the roof. It was a way to pass the time, a distraction while he waited. While they all waited, sheltered from the weather inside the command tent, each of them engaged in personal worry rituals. At the head of the war table, Dimitri stared at the map before him, brow furrowed, hands folded. Beside him, Sylvain played knucklebones with the markers, while Ingrid loitered behind, chewing on her nail. Occasionally she brushed a hand over Sylvain’s arm or shoulder. Unlike Dimitri and Byleth, they were free to display affection in public. The jealously Byleth felt over that was new, but manageable.

On the other side of the tent, Felix paced in the space between the table and the freestanding shelf against the wall, weaving around the chair where Gilbert sat motionless. Ashe had long retreated from the table to sit in the corner where he could fletch arrows without fear of being jostled. Hapi and Annette assisted him, the first per her custom, the second for something to do with her hands. Annette was never idle.

The only people who did not appear restless were Yuri and Dedue. Yuri leaned back on the two legs of his chair, feet on the table, perusing a book, while Dedue stood soldier-like at Dimitri’s shoulder. Byleth wondered, not for the first time, if their nervous ticks were invisible. Like his, counting the countless raindrops.

Finally, a sound at the door heralded the return of their missing members. Byleth rose as Mercedes ducked through the door, her hair dripping rainwater. She accepted his offered hand with a smile, leaning on it to step over the curled edge of the carpet spread across the ground. Linhardt was less graceful with his entry, tripping on it, then using it to clean the mud from his boots. No one commented on his behaviour, which would have been uncouth a week earlier. But four days into the Verdant Rain the carpet squelched under their feet anyway. A little mud wouldn’t make things worse.

Annette jumped from her seat and rushed to the shelf, which bore a supply of towels, necessary in this moon. She threw one at Linhardt before helping Mercedes with her raincoat. Still, no one spoke—not until Dimitri rose from his seat, jaw tight, and uttered a single word.

“Well?”

Mercedes calmed Annette’s fussing with a touch to her upper arm, then stepped around the smaller mage to face Dimitri directly.

“I am sorry that I cannot bring you better news, Your Highness,” she said. “But, as we feared, it’s dysentery.”

Dimitri fell back into his chair with a thud and dropped his face into his hands. Byleth felt an urge to go to him, but held his place by the door.

Sylvain scooped his makeshift knucklebones into his hand and squeezed them.

“How many so far?” he asked.

“Most of the soldiers in the south-west corner have succumbed to the disease,” Mercedes reported. “Perhaps close to nine hundred.”

“Fifty are dead,” Linhardt said, peeling off one of his soaked gloves. Hearing the strained detachment in his voice, Byleth decided to take the healer some of the angelica tea he had stashed away. Later, when there was no one else present to witness his distress.

“That number is likely to grow,” Gilbert sighed. “Quickly.”

Sylvain cast the markers onto the tabletop. “Do we know the source?”

“Water. Rotten food,” Linhardt said with a shrug. “It could be anything.”

“We’ve suggested that drinking water be drawn from further up the stream as a start,” Mercedes added.

A sombre silence fell. Byleth sank back onto the trunk by the door. Only two weeks and three assaults. Disease was inevitable in any military campaign, but it was difficult to hear it was upon them so early in the siege. They hadn’t made a dent in Merceus’s walls.

After a few more moments of silence, Felix finally lost his patience and spun towards Dimitri.

“We should’ve pressed our advantage in the last attack,” he said. “This is crazy. A siege during the Verdant Rain?”

Dimitri, face still hidden, flinched away from Felix’s voice.

“It’s Merceus, Felix,” Sylvain said sharply. “What else can we do? Walk up to the gate and politely knock? Ask the Death Knight if he’ll kindly let us in now?”

Several of the company visibly shuddered. They had only learned that the Death Knight, the most fearsome, unforgiving and volatile of the Imperial army’s generals, commanded the fortress after their arrival. Byleth and the Blue Lions had met him on four previous occasions, and each time they had come away bruised and battered, while the Death Knight remained untouched, undefeated. Whether wielding magic, a sword or his famed scythe, he was a formidable opponent.

Worse than that, within days of setting up siege, rumours of his gruesome deeds, his cruelty, his bloodlust, had sent a dark feat through the Kingdom camp. It was a problem that had occupied Byleth since the first assault.

“Your Highness.”

Dimitri tensed as though trying to hold himself still, not raising his head to see Ingrid stand to attention.

“Let me lead the pegasus knights into battle,” she said. “We can take the wall, open the gate.”

“There are dozens of archers on that wall,” Ashe pointed out. “You won’t get close enough.”

“Then send the mages in and storm it!” Felix said, throwing his hands in the air.

“We’d need at least fifty within range of the gate to have any chance of breaking it down,” Annette said. “It would be less with fire magic, but it’s next to useless in the rain.”

Felix immediately sobered. As he lowered himself into the chair beside Gilbert, Byleth noticed Dimitri’s fingers curling against his forehead.

“What about the underground tunnels?” Sylvain asked. He twisted to look at Yuri. “Can’t you do something with them?”

Yuri scoffed and Dimitri’s shoulders sank. Byleth pressed his hands against the lid of the trunk.

“If this disease spreads any further through the camp we won’t have an army, so…”

“Your Highness,” Dedue interrupted.

A hush blanketed the tent. Byleth silently blessed Dedue for doing what he could not. The signs that the prince was beginning to panic, to retreat into the dark places that haunted him, had been all too clear.

Dimitri dropped his arms to the table and sought Byleth out. Byleth attempted an encouraging smile, and at that he looked away again, drawing a deep breath.

“We must attack,” Dimitri said. “Take the fortress. Before the Death Knight finds out there’s disease in our camp.”

“It must be soon. He is certain to learn of it the moment we bury the dead.” Gilbert folded his hands together on the tabletop. “The Imperial watch will mark any significant movement of bodies.”

“There can’t be more than three hundred soldiers within the walls,” Felix said. “Once the gate’s open we can take them easily.”

“Again, Felix, the point,” Sylvain muttered.

“Three hundred soldiers _and_ the Death Knight,” Ashe countered at the same time. “He can defeat entire squadrons on his own.”

Ingrid folded her arms. “Ashe is right. We must account for his interference.”

“We still haven’t got the gate open,” Sylvain said, louder than before.

“We know the Death Knight’s methods,” Felix shrugged to Ingrid. “We can just…”

“What about you, Chatterbox?”

Byleth looked up at Hapi as the others stopped speaking. It was rare for her to interrupt, and even while she did her focus remained on the feathers in her hand.

“You’re being awfully quiet for one of our lead tacticians,” she said.

Turning back to the centre of the tent, Byleth found everyone staring at him. He bit back his misgivings, the ones that had plagued him for days, and stood up. He wrapped his fingers over the back of an empty chair at the table.

“We should attack in the morning,” he said. “The Imperial army won’t expect it. Not in this rain. Their defences will be down.”

He pointed to the eastern gate and looked at Ingrid.

“If the pegasus knights move under the cover of dawn, poor visibility will allow you to breach the wall here. Yuri can create a diversion in the underground tunnel to draw the soldiers away, give you a better chance.”

Yuri snapped his book closed and dropped his chair back to the ground. “I’ll have the gang prepare explosives. Destabilise the wall while we’re at it.”

“Meanwhile,” Byleth gestured to the part of the map closest to Dimitri, “the mages, covered by Dedue’s heavy soldiers, will attack the main gate.”

“To what purpose?” Dedue asked. “Annette has stated that they will be unable to attack the gate effectively.”

“Hapi, do you still think you can get into the guardhouse using your pegasus, like we discussed?” Byleth asked.

Hapi looked up from her work. “Like I said, give me Ashe for cover and I will. My girl’s so fast they’ll never see her coming.”

Byleth nodded and stared down at the map. “Once the gate’s open, Annette, Dedue, Felix, Sylvain…if we can get your forward forces inside the wall, the game’ll be over.”

“And the Death Knight?” Ashe asked.

The snag. Byleth took a breath and looked to the head of the table. He was met with a hard, angry expression that revealed Dimitri had guessed the rest.

“No.”

That single, forbidding word sent a murmur through the tent. Byleth let go of the chair, steeling himself for the argument.

“We know what the Death Knight wants,” he said. “We’ve always known. If he hears I’m coming for him, he’ll abandon his post. The Imperial forces will be left without a commander.”

Dimitri pushed himself from his chair, hands flat on the table.

“I will not let you put yourself in danger,” he said.

“We don’t have the numbers for a long siege,” Byleth replied. “Not if we want to take Enbarr. The Imperial force there must be at least nine thousand strong and this disease, the assaults, have already brought us down to less than seven.”

“The Death Knight is too powerful,” Dimitri ground out.

“We’ve fought him before, learned his tricks, like Felix…”

“Not alone!”

The shout rang in Byleth’s ears. He looked away under the force of it, saw Annette shrink into a corner, Hapi and Ashe turn away, Gilbert concentrate on a single marker on the map.

“Not alone.”

The unexpected softness of the follow-up drew Byleth’s eyes back to Dimitri. In his face, he could see the motive behind his anger: the fear, the dreams. The nightmares. Reasons that made Byleth’s heart ache.

“Byleth,” Dimitri continued, stepping away from his chair. “You’ve never fought him alone.”

With an audience, Byleth couldn’t say the things he wanted to: they couldn’t let emotion dictate strategy; there was no other option; he needed to keep Dimitri safe. Speaking any of the things aloud would only make the truth more obvious.

“None of us have,” Felix said suddenly. He stood up too, folded his arms. “But Byleth’s got the best chance. He’s the Enlightened One. He wields the Sword of the Creator.”

Byleth nodded. “Dimitri, I…”

“I’ll cover you.”

Byleth spun to face Mercedes, noticing others do the same. Unperturbed by the reaction to her words, Mercedes deftly folded her towel and draped it over her arm.

“I’ll cover Byleth when he fights the Death Knight,” she said. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll be close enough to render assistance. Whatever that may be.”

And Byleth decided Mercedes would also be receiving some tea that evening. Crescent Moon.

He turned back to Dimitri. Dedue eyed his approach, then stepped neatly aside to empty the space beside the prince. With that simple action, Byleth realised that he, at the very least, knew about their relationship. Perhaps he had for a while.

“Dimitri,” Byleth said softly, taking the spot Dedue had freed. “If we want to see the end of this war, we need to take Merceus now. I’ve thought about this. It’s the best way.”

Dimitri averted his eyes, then pushed past Byleth. Byleth stumbled, from surprise more than anything else. It had not been a forceful action, nothing violent.

Yet it hurt. It hurt more than anything else Byleth could imagine.

“Very well,” Dimitri said, striding to the tent’s entrance. “We attack at dawn. Use silent signals. Make sure the soldiers are prepared.”

And he was gone, the door slapping against the tent wall behind him, leaving Byleth with eleven pairs of eyes trained on him. They shared looks of suspicion, curiosity, bafflement. And, in Linhardt and Hapi’s cases, boredom.

“Excuse me,” Dedue said.

As he went after Dimitri, Gilbert cleared his throat.

“His Highness struggles to see the people he cares about in danger,” he said. “He is not angry, merely frustrated. You mustn’t take it to heart, Byleth. Your plan is the best we have.”

The knight’s commitment to his ideas and wished-for future were preventing him from drawing the obvious conclusion. Byleth was glad of that, but knew he couldn’t hope the Blue Lions would be as stubborn. Sylvain, for one, lounged back in his chair with a smirk. Yuri raised an eyebrow, his entire demeanour amused.

Byleth crossed his arms and returned to the map. If he focussed on completing their strategy, everything else should fall away. Including his teeming emotions.

“Do you think you can get people into both tunnels?” he asked Yuri. “We should spread their forces as thin as possible.”

“Of course,” Yuri said, his smile audible in his voice. “Leave it to me, friend.”

* * *

The camp settled early in preparation for the assault. But Byleth was restless. Alone in his tent, he went over each piece of his armour, taking the time to attend to scratches he had ignored for their insignificance. The daylight faded and eventually he worked by only the light of the lantern beside his cot.

He had moved onto the Sword of the Creator when there was a rustle outside his tent. He slowed his work, but didn’t get up. He knew who it was and the door wasn’t fastened.

Upon entering, Dimitri studied Byleth for a long moment without saying a word. Although he shifted compulsively, stretching his shoulders, scuffing a boot, before eventually turning and fastening the door’s toggles. The few moments it took to do the job felt like an eternity.

A low thrumming started in Byleth’s veins. Anticipation. Dread. He tightened his fingers around the Sword.

When he was finished with the door, Dimitri went to Byleth’s armour stand. He lifted each piece and looked it over, tugging on straps, testing the joins of the plates. Then he took the Sword from Byleth’s hands, cast his eye along the blade, hefted it in one hand, two. With a curt nod, he took the oiled cloth from where it lay on the cot and tenderly wrapped the Sword. It was rested against the armour stand.

Dimitri had never been silent for so long. Byleth rubbed his palms against his trousers. He wanted it to be over. He needed it to be over.

Sitting down on the cot, Dimitri laid his hand on Byleth’s shoulder. For once not enclosed in gloves, his fingers were cold enough to be felt through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“It’s not stiff anymore?” Dimitri asked, voice slicing through the quiet as he began to massage the joint. There had been an ache, a tenderness, in Byleth’s shoulder after the last assault, from twisting it while lifting a shield to cover Annette.

“It’s not,” Byleth replied, forcing the words through the dryness in his mouth.

Dimitri nodded. He ran his fingers across Byleth’s back, over his shoulders and down his torso, copying the quick examination that the healers performed to check for those injuries gone unnoticed in the rush of battle. Byleth shivered under his ministrations.

“Your wounds? All healed?”

“Yes.”

Byleth yelped as Dimitri swung from the cot, landing on one knee on the canvas floor. He tried to pull him back up, but Dimitri easily shook off his attempts. He rested one hand on Byleth’s left knee and wrapped the other around his calf.

“Your knee?”

He extended Byleth’s leg in the stretch that, after Remire, had become as much a part of his life as Dimitri himself. The injury he’d taken from the thug’s club hadn’t mended properly, and by the time they realised, it was too late.

“Has it been bothering you?” Dimitri asked, frowning. “Should I call a healer to check it?”

Byleth reached out and cupped Dimitri’s face with one hand.

“Stop,” he said.

Dimitri sank into his touch as he lowered Byleth’s foot to the ground. His eye fell closed and his breath quavered.

“Why?” he whispered. “How long was this your plan? How long did you keep this from me?”

“Don’t,” Byleth said.

“Hapi knew, Byleth. Why Hapi? Why not me?”

“Please, Dimitri. It’s pointless.”

Dimitri twisted onto his knees and lifted himself up, in a mirror of what had happened in the gardens at Derdriu. Byleth found himself unable to look away, enthralled by his prince’s earnestness and beauty.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” Dimitri said. He slipped a hand behind Byleth’s neck and brought their foreheads together. “You must come back.”

“This isn’t my first battle,” Byleth breathed.

“You know this is different. Goddess, I feel useless. It’s my nightmare, Byleth. You’re bringing it to life.” He tilted his head back, caught Byleth’s eyes with his. “Don’t go. Stay in the command lines. Stay with me.”

This time, Byleth took Dimitri’s face in both hands.

“You’re commander of this army, Mitya,” he said. “Give me your orders.”

Dimitri drew a sharp breath. He wrapped his arms around Byleth’s waist, drawing him closer, burying his face against his shoulder.

“I can’t,” he choked. “Find another way. Please, find another way.”

Byleth stroked his hair. “I’m sorry, Mitya. I’m so sorry.”

Dimitri straightened, the movement violent, and slammed his lips against Byleth’s. Byleth moaned into the kiss as he felt frantic hands against his stomach, tugging his shirt loose from his waistband. With that, he pushed the Death Knight, the morning, everything else from his mind. Tomorrow, the world might fall apart. But tonight, Dimitri was here, in his arms. Everything else could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At a certain point, one simply has to press the post button.
> 
> If there are any mistakes or typos I'll fix them in the morning.
> 
> Thanks to skyheart for reading over this chapter in an earlier form!
> 
> And thank you to the readers. Your kudos and comments brighten my day.
> 
> Next up, a battle.


	7. ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter is a battle scene and as such contains descriptions of violence and death.

Within moments of the grand portcullis opening, the second series of explosions shook Merceus. The Imperial knights stumbled in their charge, throwing water and mud up from the ground. The Kingdom army didn’t falter, bursting through the gate and into the outer bailey. They met the enemy with a roar and the clash of sword against sword, the thud of bodies against shields.

Chaos.

In the midst of it Byleth broke away from the throng of the army. He ducked under the sweep of Imperial lances, fended off attacks with the Sword of the Creator. Rain rang against his breastplate and dripped from his hair into his eyes. A helmet would have kept his vision clear, but in the heat of battle and the overwhelming grey of the Verdant Rain, the glow of the Sword against his hair was the easiest way to draw the Death Knight’s attention. And that was his only aim.

_You must come back._

Mercedes fought at his side, wearing a mage’s armour in place of her usual healer uniform. She blasted their enemies with cunning casts of Thunder, sometimes taking out two or three at a time. It had been so long since she’d entered battle that Byleth had forgotten how fearsome she was. Together, they moved further into the fort, cutting through the teeming mass of bodies, drawing ever closer to the wall of the inner bailey and the gate that would lead them (Byleth hoped, he prayed) to the Death Knight.

The ground trembled. Byleth stopped, feet spread to keep his balance, and raised the Sword, shielding Mercedes as well as himself. Yuri had said two rounds of explosives, no more, no less. And the Imperial soldiers around them were scattering, abandoning the fight. That could mean only one thing.

A low growl shook the air, confirming Byleth’s fear. He pushed Mercedes safely behind him as the tremors beneath their feet took on a rhythm similar to a horse’s trot. A moment later, a demonic beast burst through the gate in front of them, its spine barely clearing the arch, its enormous tail smacking against the stone walls. Byleth raised his eyes to the creature’s teeth, each one as long as and sharper than a sword.

“That poor soul,” Mercedes breathed.

Byleth echoed her sentiment as the beast swung its head left, right, searching for targets. Of all the weapons that the Empire used against them, this one disgusted him the most. It brought to mind Sylvain’s ghost-white face as he watched his brother transform into the Black Beast. The academy students lying slain at the chapel. To turn people into monsters, not give them even the dignity of sanity in their last moments—

But he couldn’t falter because of Imperial cruelty. This was war.

The muffled thud of hooves on the wet ground warned of a cavalry’s approach. Byleth tugged Mercedes to the side as a mounted battalion galloped past, aiming for the beast. At its rear, Sylvain stalled his horse long enough to shout, “Go! We’ll take care of it!”

Byleth grabbed Mercedes’s hand. They ran, ducking past the beast as its focus turned to the javelins plummeting upon its back. Roaring, it rose to its hind legs and lifted a clawed paw. Byleth threw Mercedes against the wall of the fortress as the beast attacked, braced her as its full weight hit the earth with a mighty boom. Dirt and stones, knocked loose from the wall by the impact, pelted down on their heads.

When the world had settled, Byleth looked over his shoulder to see two paladins scrambling away from the beast. They were groaning, bleeding, their horses nowhere in sight. Likely bolted. Sylvain yelled out and cast a short spear at the beast’s head, trying to attract its attention away from the fallen soldiers.

“I have to help them!”

Byleth turned back to Mercedes. Her face was pale, her eyes fixed on the two paladins.

“Catch up when you can,” he said.

Mercedes met his eyes and nodded. Byleth squeezed her hand, then bolted towards the gate leading to the inner bailey.

_You’ve never fought him alone._

Byleth passed through the gate, the Sword held aloft, ready for resistance, a struggle. Likewise, the soldiers inside the wall raised their weapons to engage. But then, with glances at each other, at the gleam of the Sword, they wavered, backed away.

The defenders of Merceus, backing away. Byleth slowed his pace. Something wasn’t right. Even the Imperial knights were retreating, shields raised as though frightened of his attack. Something was…

The Death Knight.

He descended the stairs of the keep. A menacing, curling magic tinted the edge of Byleth’s senses even from that distance, sending a shiver down his spine. Meanwhile the soldiers withdrew further, lowered their shields, formed a distant circle. As though they were about to witness a joust, or a duel…

Byleth halted. He found his footing in the mud beneath him, adjusted his grip on his weapon. The Death Knight continued to advance, drawing his sword as he came closer, its blade slicing through the rain in a long, graceful arc. He looked neither left nor right. The chilling stare of his helm, those glowing red eyes, focused only on Byleth. What colour were the real eyes beneath?

“You came,” the Death Knight rasped as he stopped a few feet away.

His tone demanded some sort of answer, some form of acknowledgement. So Byleth gave a sharp nod. The Death Knight returned the gesture languidly.

“Go,” he said, raising his voice over the noise in the outer bailey, the roar of the beast, to their spectators. “Defend the fort from the vermin. But if anyone interferes with this man and this fight, be it upon his own head.”

Byleth took a breath, relieved that he had been right. The Death Knight wanted a duel, just as he had before. A fight pitting strength against strength, skill against skill. He had deemed this battleground less chaotic than the ones before. Here it would end, when one of them killed the other.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” the Death Knight said.

And he lunged.

Their swords crashed together, one, two, three, before the Death Knight jumped back with grace lent by magic. Byleth flicked his wet hair from his eyes and took a defensive stance, the tip of the Sword tilted towards the ground.

“You’re stronger now,” the Death Knight commented.

Byleth ignored him. Words were to distract, taunts to discourage. He didn’t need them.

Instead, he pounced and swung the Sword upwards. It sang against the other sword’s steel, grated momentarily against black armour. The Death Knight knocked it away and thrust his blade forward. It glanced off the Sword, scraped Byleth’s breastplate.

Too evenly matched. This could go on for hours. Or minutes. Either. Too evenly matched.

They clashed, back and forth across the bailey, each impact reverberating down Byleth’s arms. His armour’s underclothes stuck to his skin, soaked by the rain, his sweat, making him feel warmer, sluggish, weak. His breath came short.

One of them would tire first, one would make a mistake. It was simply a matter of who.

_What if I fail?_

_You don’t need to be scared._

The rain pounded against Byleth’s armour, harder than before. His feet sank into the ground. The Death Knight was taller, heavier. An advantage. The mud was slippery, they were moving too fast—

Byleth parried and rushed his opponent. The Death Knight twisted, raised his weapon. Their blades slid together and the cross guards locked, bringing Byleth face to face with the fierce teeth of his enemy’s helm. Light flashed at the corner of his eye and the air was knocked from Byleth’s lungs as something sharp dove into his lower torso.

Gasping, he pushed forward with all his strength. The Death Knight stumbled and the blade of his dagger slid free from where it was embedded below Byleth’s breastplate. It had entered above his hip, tip pointed towards his stomach. The wound prickled, a deep, aching sensation at the edge of his mind, bearing the promise to grow into something more volatile.

Time stopped.

Trembling, Byleth closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Though he couldn’t see it, he felt the reversing of his and the Death Knight’s movements, a dash of bodies and air, the blade re-entering his body and sliding back out, leaving his flesh whole and untorn in its wake.

The mud was slippery, they were moving too fast—

Byleth retreated. The Death Knight came up short, then imitated him, accepting the break.

Chest heaving, with the sting of the wound a memory, Byleth grasped the hilt of the dagger at his waist and stared into the Death Knight’s glowing eyes. There was a pause, then the Death Knight reached down and drew his from its hiding place at the top of his cuisse.

“I wonder how you knew,” he murmured.

Byleth drew his dagger just in time to catch his opponent’s sword, the blow followed by a dagger slash at his unprotected face. As he lurched to avoid it, he stabbed at the gap between the Death Knight’s helm and breastplate. His dagger bounced off a black vambrace, raised at the last to block. The impact twisted Byleth’s hand and caused him to drop the knife at the same moment white pain exploded behind his eyes.

Byleth’s left knee folded beneath him, throbbing with the remnants of magic. A precise blow, one he hadn’t seen coming in the midst of their tussle. Careful, tactical, aimed at a known weakness.

The Death Knight dropped his sword in favour of grabbing Byleth’s armour and holding him upright.

“Rapturous,” he breathed.

A chill tore through Byleth’s body as steel once again pierced through his clothing, his skin, his flesh. No. He whimpered as the dagger was wrenched free, as history repeated, unchangeable, infallible. This was to be.

The Death Knight shoved him away. Choking, spluttering, Byleth used the Sword as a crutch to remain on his feet. Magic still drummed in his knee, pain deepened in his stomach. Seething, prodding. Insistent.

He looked up to see his enemy waiting with his sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. A different soldier, in a different battle, would have skewered him in his weakness. But the Death Knight wanted to draw this out. To savour it. The sick, bloodthirsty bastard.

Minutes. It would have to be minutes and not hours. The detached, calculating part of Byleth’s mind had already finished the sums. Deep stab wound to the lower abdomen. Maybe not lots of blood, but likely lots of damage. The gut. Danger. The pain would get worse as the wound was ripped and torn from movement. Strained. Any longer than minutes and he would weaken, he would falter, he would die.

He would die.

Dimitri.

Byleth’s fingertips itched with the power of the Divine Pulse. He swallowed, adjusted his feet. Hesitated, wavered, considered. Back, he could go back. Again. Just enough to undo the damage. Again. Just enough to win.

Perhaps just enough to lose.

_You’ve done everything you can. That’s enough._

Byleth staggered as he lifted the Sword with both hands. No more time to think, no more time to ponder. Just fight.

The Death Knight attacked. He clumsily parried the strike. Just fight.

Byleth smashed the Sword’s pommel against the Death Knight’s left wrist. The dagger fell to the ground and he kicked it across the bailey. Just fight.

Mud squelched around his feet, the Sword whipped through the rain. He was only movement, only violence, only force. But he was met with might that beat him back, pushed against him, sapped his energy. Strong, overpowering, terrifying—

_Stay with me._

The morning sun gazed through the window, casting light across golden hair and closed eyes that flinched against it. Byleth raised a hand to shade them and was rewarded with a smile, from lips that had more often possessed reason to frown.

A sight he would never see, a scene that would never play out.

_You fool!_

A voice rose from the depths of his being, one he’d thought dormant, lost.

_Are you prepared to die?_

No.

A fire ignited and raged through Byleth’s limbs, warming his body, heating his blood. The Sword of the Creator burned a darker red. He squeezed its grip and stared into the eyes of defeat.

“Dimitri!”

As he screamed, Byleth slammed the Sword down onto the Death Knight’s weapon. He slipped as he lifted it again, but its point hit true in the centre of his opponent’s breastplate, ripping through as though it was paper. Byleth grabbed the other man’s pauldron and yanked him closer, shoving the blade deeper into, through, his body.

The Death Knight slumped. His sword slipped from his hand. As it slapped against the mud, he sniggered, chuckled, finally laughed.

“To kill,” he said, dropping his hands on Byleth’s shoulders. Byleth cried out anew as Nosferatu pulsed across his armour, crackled through his body, draining his life, stealing it away.

“To die,” the Death Knight hissed with pilfered strength.

The magic faltered. Byleth used the reprieve to heave on the Sword. His enemy shrieked as it left his body. The divine weapon plunged to the ground, its glow extinguishing, as Byleth brought his hand to his abdomen and pressed against his main source of pain. He watched the Death Knight drop to his knees beside the Sword, clawing at the base of his helm, coughing, wheezing. It was truly over.

Byleth grunted as his own knees hit the earth. The impact shuddered through his whole, aching body. Pushing the agony aside, he shuffled over to the Death Knight and fumbled with the buckle of the helm. The remnants of dark magic and the rain combined to make him clumsy, causing him to curse before he finally loosened it. Long, mouse-coloured hair unfurled from within the helm as he lifted it away, to tumble around the thin, white face of the Death Knight.

Blood painted Jeritza’s lips as he smiled at Byleth.

“I suppose one…without the other…would be maddening,” he said.

With that, he swayed and tumbled. Byleth tried to stop him falling, but instead was dragged down as well. They lay face to face, their breath mingling and warm, looking into each other’s eyes. Byleth laughed and choked on it. Dimitri. That morning, he had laid beside Dimitri like this. And he hadn’t promised to return.

_It’s my nightmare. You’re bringing it to life._

Goddess, this was his punishment.

“I can’t die,” he said.

Jeritza closed his eyes, his expression serene.

“Everyone does, in the end,” he whispered.

“Byleth!”

The new voice—female, familiar—was panicked, frightened. A freezing hand cupped his cheek and turned his head gently. He gazed into Mercedes’s lavender eyes, eyes the same colour as the ones he had finally exposed.

“Mercedes…” Jeritza croaked.

Even in the rain, Byleth could tell that she was crying. Yet she didn’t look at Jeritza. She gave the bulk of her attention to Byleth as she undid the buckles of his armour.

“Emile,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for not being a better sister to you. Please forgive me.”

She threw the breastplate aside. Byleth gritted his teeth as she peeled his jacket away from his wound.

“You deserved better, Emile.”

Jeritza’s breath was slowing, gasps becoming whimpers. Byleth clutched Mercedes’s wrist.

“Go,” he hissed. “Help him.”

Mercedes shook her head. A cool, unpleasant sensation sparked at Byleth’s wound. Healing magic. It enveloped him, tied him to the world. Held him steady, awake, away from the shadows.

“I should have tried harder. I should have come back sooner. Emile…”

Jeritza exhaled and there was silence.

When Mercedes sobbed into it, Byleth grasped her sleeve. A new hurt swelled inside him, worse than the physical pain, absolutely sickening.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Mercedes, I’m sorry…”

“Hush,” Mercedes said, swiping her forearm across her eyes. “Stay still. We’ll clean you up.”

“I—”

“Mercedes!”

The yell was accompanied by the clamour of hooves, followed by a thud. Sylvain knelt down beside Byleth. Mud and grime covered most of his person. His hair was plastered to his face. No wounds though. No wounds.

“Is it bad?” Sylvain asked Mercedes.

“I need to stop the bleeding,” she replied, her voice taking on the short quality she reserved for hospital tents. It made Byleth want to laugh.

“I can’t see much blood.”

“Inside, Sylvain, he’s bleeding inside. We need to get him out of the rain, back to camp…”

_You must come back._

“Sylvain,” Byleth gasped, trying to grab his hand, but failing.

Sylvain smiled down at him, gentle, kind. “How can I help?”

“Did we win?”

Leather and metal kissed his forehead as Sylvain combed his hair aside. The action was soothing, loving. Not like what Byleth had previously known from him. No wonder everyone fell for him, if this was what he could be like.

“Don’t worry,” Sylvain said. “It’s over. We’ve taken the fort.”

Byleth closed his eyes, reassured. But as soon as he did, he felt something sinister, something dim and dark approaching. He didn’t have the power to fight it. Not like last time, when he had screamed, when he had thrashed in the waters that swallowed him, before he had sunk, sunk…

“Dimitri?” Byleth cried.

His body convulsed, outside his control. Panicked, he tried to escape the hands prodding and poking at him. Someone shushed him, spread their fingers flat across the centre of his chest, cast a spell of calm.

“Where’s Dimitri?” Byleth demanded. “I need to see him, I need...”

Before he lost, succumbed, fell…

“He’s at the command tent, By. He’s fine.”

Sturdy hands caught him, drew him close. Byleth moaned, felt tears warm on his cheeks, contrasting with the cold of everything else. His or someone else’s?

“It’s all right, I’ve got you. You’re…By? Byle—”

_If I am condemned to the same hell as my father, I want to at least be able to cherish the memory of your touch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people helped me survive this chapter (trust me, survive is the right word). Special thanks to skyheart for her continued support of this story and for beta-reading; to emiwaka29 for her suggestions and encouragement while I agonized over how to write a battle scene; and to members of the Sylvgrid server for providing resources, sound effects and verbs. You're all fantastic.
> 
> Stay safe everyone and thank you for reading.


	8. life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Vomitting

At the foot of the Throne of the Goddess, high above the rest of the Holy Tomb, Byleth drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He couldn’t recall how long he’d been sitting there, nor how he’d arrived. He only remembered the threatening glow of the Death Knight’s eyes, the cool touch of Mercedes’s magic, Sylvain’s voice chasing him into the darkness. And then, the Tomb, stretching further than he could see, its size merely hinted by pinpricks of green light from lanterns that lined the two, neat rows of sarcophagi below. Impossibly large, impossibly silent, impossibly empty.

Byleth swallowed his scream. It burned in his throat, trying to escape.

Six years ago Rhea had brought him to this place to establish his right to the goddess’s power. She had claimed that he was someone else, that his memories would return when he sat upon the Throne. But it was a lie. Sothis had gifted him with power—that was indisputable—but he wasn’t chosen. He was simply a man, who didn’t belong in the cold, eerie, lonely depths of the earth, in a monument to the goddess, a monument to death, with graves and the crumbled bones they contained as company.

He belonged with Dimitri.

“I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

The voice was smooth and musical, both welcome and unwanted. Sothis followed on its echo, alighting upon the edge of the dais in order to walk towards Byleth. She stood taller than he remembered, probably reaching his shoulder, and moved with a languid grace amplified by the rippled of her skirts. Soft smile lines framed her eyes and mouth, hinting that her age was greater than the thirty or so years she otherwise looked to possess. The difference was startling, until Byleth picked out those aspects that hadn’t changed: her green hair, braided with white and pink ribbons; the pointed ears peeking out from beneath; the sharp fondness in her eyes as she smirked and nudged him aside with one foot so that she could take a seat upon the Throne.

“Nothing to say?” Sothis asked. She leaned forward to examine his face, propping her chin on one hand. “I suppose you always were hesitant to speak up. But it cannot be that you have already forgotten about me.”

“I haven’t,” Byleth whispered.

Sothis pouted. The expression, which had been natural and endearing on her younger features, seemed odd on her narrower, adult face.

“Then why do you not offer a single word of greeting?” she asked.

Byleth turned away. He was glad to see her, certainly, and that prompted him to make amends. But fear compelled a different question, one too overwhelming to utter while looking at her.

“Am I dead?” His voice broke on the last word, forcing him to clear his throat before continuing. “Is that why I’m here?”

Sothis laughed and ruffled his hair as though he was a child.

“If that is what worries you, young one, do not fear,” she said. “You are not dead. Your last opponent was very powerful. Though it gained him nothing in the end, he stole your lifeblood with his magic. Now you have come here to recover.”

Byleth cupped the spot where the Death Knight had stabbed him. He could yet feel the sting of the dagger, but it was dull, distant. Not something that warranted rest.

“If I’m not dead, I can’t stay,” he said.

Sothis dropped her hand from his head and sighed. “Then you intend a repeat of the last time you were here.”

Byleth twisted to face her. “Last time?”

“You have forgotten?” she said, her eyes widening.

Byleth pressed his lips together. His last memory of the Tomb was one he preferred not to dwell upon: Dimitri, held back by Dedue, screaming at the place where Edelgard and Hubert had been standing a moment before. The beginning of his great failure as a teacher, as a friend, as...but he sensed that wasn’t the occasion to which Sothis referred.

“Perhaps it is for the best,” she said slowly. “You were very distressed.”

She rose from the Throne to drift towards the stairs leading down from the dais. There, she raised a hand and pointed at the distant lights.

“The little ones were in danger. You walked and walked, trying to escape that you might help them. For hours, days, weeks on end, according to mortal measurements. You refused to listen when I tried to dissuade you, even after you collapsed in exhaustion. You truly believed you would find a way out.”

Byleth folded his arms atop his knees. His missing years, accounted for at last. He had been safe at the seat of the goddess’s power while his friends—while Dimitri—suffered, fighting for their lives. The very thought made him sick.

“Is there one?” he asked. “A way out?”

Sothis lowered her hand, releasing another sigh, heavier than the last.

“Of course,” she said. “Of course you wish to leave. For there is someone waiting for you.”

A warm breath brushed Byleth’s cheek, distinct in the chill of the Tomb.

_Beloved…_

And lightning ripped through his body, shattering bone, tearing muscle. Crying out, he curled in on himself, clutching the wound in his abdomen. His joints creaked as a crushing weight bore down upon them, as though he was being trampled by a demonic beast. He wanted to be sick but his stomach was empty. Painfully so.

_“How many times has this happened?”_

_“Only twice now, it…”_

_“He’s unconscious. It isn’t as though he can control it.”_

“You cannot leave yet, young one,” Sothis said.

_“He isn’t unconscious.”_

_“Then what…”_

“Your body is not healed.”

_“He’s asleep.”_

Byleth opened his eyes. He was still in the Tomb. However, the sensations of soft bedding underneath him and a warm hand on his forehead lingered. A new pain, separate from his physical injuries and so much worse, coiled in his chest.

“I do understand,” Sothis said. She crouched down and pressed her palm flat over the place where his heart should beat. “When you are with him, I can feel it here. A passion I have never known you to possess, not in all the years we have been together.”

“Then you know,” Byleth replied, covering her hand with his own. “You know I need to go to him.”

Her green eyes flashed. “You cannot. If you try to leave now, you may die.”

The ache in his chest flared. Death. Separation.

“I must,” he whispered.

Sothis yanked her hand away. Byleth looked away from her, then grit his teeth and grabbed the Throne’s armrest. His legs shuddered as he pulled himself to his feet, but he didn’t fall. He had been in worse shape after a fight. He would manage, he thought, taking a step.

The stone floor chilled his feet as it lurched beneath him. He threw out his arm, trying to find his balance, and his wrist knocked something hard, unyielding. The air was heavy and humid, closing in upon him. Yet when his vision cleared, he saw only Sothis, her fingers wrapped tightly around his arm, holding him up.

“What happened?” she demanded.

Byleth glanced at his feet. His boots, scuffed and worn, their laces shortened several times due to tears, nonetheless possessed good, leather soles. He couldn’t have felt the floor’s temperature through them.

“I’m all right,” he said, looking back at Sothis.

Her worried expression turned to disgust and she threw his arm away.

“You are acting like a fool,” she spat.

Byleth smiled as he stumbled forward. Her accusations had softened with age. Not so long ago, she would have called him a fool outright.

“Do not make faces at me,” Sothis said. “I am not the one risking our wellbeing.”

Byleth’s apology caught on his tongue as he peered down the staircase to the main floor of the Tomb. The longer he stared, the further away the lower level appeared. It made his head spin. Nonetheless, he began the descent, jarring his knee on the first step, again on the second. He bit the inside of his cheek as he continued, until his lungs began to burn, their protest worse than the tremor in his limbs.

“You must allow the healing to take its natural course,” Sothis said, floating alongside him, free from the turmoil of walking. “Your blood, the legacy of your birth, both demand that you sleep.”

Byleth sucked in another breath. “The legacy of my birth?” he asked.

“Have you not realised the truth? I do not know from whom you sprung, but you must be of my line.”

_It is proof of our shared ancestry._

The phrase reverberated in his skull, nonsensical. Byleth pressed his hand against his belly, begging the whirlwind within it to calm. Before he vomited all over the carpet, which looked expensive, he…

He blinked and saw only stone.

Halting, Byleth squeezed his eyes shut against his nausea before sinking down onto a step. He cupped his hands over his mouth and nose, his breath quavering as he tried to force it to slow down.

“See!” Sothis exclaimed. “Why are you so stubborn?”

_I don’t know_ , Byleth thought, chanting the phrase to himself while he caught his breath. When he finally opened his eyes again, the Tomb was still. The main floor was closer, but he was certain the trail of green lights extended further out into the dark than before.

“How long does the healing take?” he asked.

Sothis crossed her arms. “Sometimes a day. Sometimes a hundred years.”

A hundred years?

Separation.

Death.

Pressing his hands against the stone below him, Byleth lowered himself down another step. He couldn’t wait that long. Dimitri cowering against the wall, covered in blood and grim, spear in hand, surrounded by dead bodies…it was a sight he never wanted to see again. He would reach the exit if he had to crawl.

“I refuse to die,” he whispered.

“You won’t!” Sothis snapped. “If you just accept the situation and rest, you won’t.”

But Dimitri might. Byleth stood slowly, teetering a little before he found his balance. He took a step, another, each movement jolting his whole body. He dug his nails into his palms as Sothis chattered on.

“This place is not like that horrid void, like the darkness.”

_But it is._

“You are safe here. You cannot be hurt. You will heal and…”

Byleth doubled over, forced to surrender control of his body as he retched. Nothing came up. Shaking, he stared at the ground, letting his stomach settle, before straightening to look at Sothis…

And slipping on the smooth edge of a step.

His shoulder struck the stone, ripping a cry from his throat. He couldn’t see anything, was only falling. Then there was a shout and a clatter, as familiar to him as breathing—a fight against a backdrop of rain.

“Byleth!”

Someone was helping him sit up. Byleth could do little more than slump against his saviour’s chest, all energy drained—until his stomach roiled. Then he flailed, trying to warn whoever was assisting him. He guessed they understood because he was physically turned, allowing him to brace himself against the ground with one hand as he gagged. But there was still nothing substantial to expel. His mouth filled with acrid taste of bile, while tears of pain, frustration, embarrassment branded his cheeks.

“You’re all right.” A steady, deep voice, a large hand rubbing his back. Dedue. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

But he wasn’t. It wasn’t. He was burning up, fire spreading across his skin, while rain soaked his clothes and glued the thin fabric to his body. The whole world was sticky and damp, his fingers were sinking into mud, he hurt, his entire body _ached_ …

“Dedue! Please, Dedue, let me…”

Dimitri’s voice soaked like an elixir into Byleth’s soul. He reached towards it, thirsty for more, as Dedue eased him into the other man’s arms. Byleth leaned into their embrace, their warmth and shelter. A moment later, he was scooped from the ground, weightless, an arm at his back and another hooked under his knees. His dropped his head onto Dimitri’s shoulder, his eyes slipping closed.

“I don’t understand,” Dimitri said. “How did he get here?”

They were moving. The rain’s kiss vanished, replaced with its heavy rhythm against a roof. Byleth shivered violently.

“Your Highness, now is not the time to speculate,” came Dedue’s voice. “We should take him back to the infirmary.”

“You’re right, we…”

Byleth tangled his fingers in Dimitri’s shirt and lifted his head. His neck ached with a toxic mixture of exhaustion and heat, and pain flickered at the site of his wound. Nonetheless, he held himself there, forced his eyes open. Just long enough to make out the dark shape of an eyepatch against blurred features, before the effort became too much and he collapsed back against Dimitri.

“Not there,” he whispered. “Please. Not there.”

“Beloved,” Dimitri said, his voice cracking, “you’re not well. The healers said…”

Using his shoulder, Byleth pushed away from him. “No! I can’t go back there. You aren’t there, I…”

Dimitri’s hold tightened, crushing him, stilling his struggles. Byleth whimpered as his wound throbbed.

“I’m here, darling,” Dimitri murmured. He pressed a kiss to Byleth’s forehead. “Don’t be frightened. You’re safe.”

“Your Highness,” Dedue said. “Perhaps we should take him to the room you have been using. It is closer than the infirmary, if nothing else.”

Byleth slung his arms around Dimitri’s neck.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t leave me.”

He felt Dimitri’s chest shudder under his cheek and knew he had won.

“Your Highness?”

“Lead the way, Dedue.”

Byleth clung to Dimitri as they advanced through the mysterious maze of wherever they were. The entire journey, his prince whispered sweet promises of protection and love and care in his ear. He would remain by his side, watch over him. They would be together for the rest of their lives. Buoyed by those words, Byleth didn’t protest when he was lowered onto a bed. He sank into it gladly, releasing a sigh when he noticed the linen bore Dimitri’s scent.

“I’ll fetch a healer,” Dedue said.

A door squeaked closed and two hands engulfed one of Byleth’s. He turned his head towards them and, feeling a little stronger, opened his eyes to see his love kneeling beside the bed, hair limp with rainwater and sticking to his face, a smile quivering on his lips.

“Beloved,” Dimitri said, “I need to get you out of these wet clothes. And your feet…they’re covered in mud. I’ll fetch the basin.”

Byleth held onto him with every ounce of strength he possessed—admittedly very little, but it was enough to keep Dimitri where he was.

“Mitya,” he said, “stay. Hold me.”

Dimitri’s smile vanished. He looked towards the foot of the bed.

“I can’t. If anyone…oh goddess.”

He was gone. Panic flooded Byleth, a trembling through his body. Come back. _Come back._

“You’re bleeding,” Dimitri said.

Pressure against the throbbing in Byleth’s abdomen announced the prince’s location. The panic subsided.

“Goddess, the wound’s reopened…”

Byleth tried to life himself onto his elbows. “Dimitri…”

“No.”

Dimitri reappeared and urged him back down onto the pillow. His eyebrows were knit together, his jaw tight. His hand shook as he caressed Byleth’s face.

“You are not strong enough.”

Sothis stepped from the air to solid ground, bright against the shadows of the Tomb’s coffers as she looked down at him, lying on his back on the floor.

“You are not strong enough for this,” she repeated.

Byleth squeezed his eyes shut. He had left Dimitri. He had left him again.

_Please, Byleth._

He looked at Sothis, his name echoing in both her and Dimitri’s voices. She had never called him by name before. She must be truly worried.

“As frustrating as you are,” Sothis continued, crouching down as he sat up, hand against his head, “I do not wish for you to suffer. And right now, you are bleeding.”

Frowning, Byleth dropped his hand to his wound. When he lifted it away his fingers were stained red. He leaned back against a sarcophagus as Sothis shuffled closer.

“Strange,” she said. “The colour is strange. It should be green. Like mine. Like Rhea’s.”

_Of my line._

“Rhea,” Byleth said, letting his hand fall into his lap. “Rhea is—”

“My child,” Sothis said. “And Seteth…I remember him too, though I knew him by a different name. Cichol, the son of Argus.”

“Argus?”

“Another of my children.”

Byleth glanced at the distant lights.

“Seteth claims we have common ancestry,” he said.

“And Flayn mentioned the kinship she felt to you.”

At the times each statement was spoken, Byleth had brushed past them, confused by their boldness. But now he studied Sothis, comparing the hue of her hair and eyes to his recollection of the faces across the table. If what she said, if what they all said, was true; if he was related to Seteth and Flayn, to Rhea, to Sothis, then what…

But that wasn’t important right now. He had to keep moving.

Byleth grasped the edge of the sarcophagus.

Something clamped them to his sides, against the grave at his back. He groaned and fought against the weight, thrashing. Sothis shot into the air, horror in her face.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Sothis…” he gasped.

“Byleth, please…”

Byleth pushed with all his might. The earth moved as someone cried out, as he swung upwards, arms raised, ready to defend himself.

Quiet. Then a breathless, humourless laugh.

He opened his eyes. Seteth was seated in front of him, holding himself up with one arm, his other hand splayed over his heart. There was a distinct, grey pallor to his face when he looked at Byleth.

“You used your Crest,” he said.

Byleth’s gut twisted. How often had he seen the colour fade from the faces of his enemies as their attacks were turned against them? As the Crest of Flames drew on their lifeblood, just as Jeritza’s Nosferatu had drawn on his?

“Seteth,” he said, “I’m sorry, I…”

Seteth held up his hand, palm facing Byleth. Stop.

“It isn’t your fault,” he said. “I thought you might hurt yourself, so I held you down. Not too dissimilar to an attack. It’s no wonder your Crest activated.”

He shifted forward along the bed and pressed his fingers to the pulse at Byleth’s neck.

“But you shouldn’t have been so agitated,” he said thoughtfully. “Your pulse is slowing now, but still, this isn’t right. How are you awake? Why is it happening differently?”

Byleth swallowed. “You mean compared to after the battle for Garreg Mach?”

Surprise flitted across Seteth’s face.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “being honest with myself, it could have been the same then. We’ll never know. But when Flayn…”

He broke off. With a shake of his head, he touched the back of his hand to Byleth’s forehead.

“Your fever hasn’t broken,” he continued. “You are conscious because of the life you took from me, but it won’t last long. When it wears off, your body will start to break down. You must go back to sleep.”

“I…I can’t. Not when…”

“No,” Seteth interrupted. “It doesn’t matter what is happening here, what battles are left to fight. This is how we heal, how we survive. If you do not sleep, you will die.”

Byleth shook his head. “A hundred years,” he whispered. “She said it would take a hundred years.”

“Who?”

“Sothis.”

Seteth blanched and grabbed Byleth’s arm.

“You saw her?” he hissed. “Byleth, tell me. You saw Sothis?”

His fingers pressed against the veins in Byleth’s wrist, sending prickles of agony up his arm.

“Answer me!” Seteth cried.

Shadows gathered at the edge of Byleth’s vision. He fought against them as the world narrowed to just Seteth’s face. He tried to break himself free from the other man’s hold, sure that if he could, he would be able to…

“Cichol,” he gasped.

Seteth’s eyes widened. His grip loosened.

Byleth fell.

He sank down, down, down. Through the pillows, through the mattress, through the earth. He let it take him.

A sweet hum, in a voice more beautiful than any other he’d ever heard, stirred him. Heavy with despair, the song wove between the fear and longing in his soul, summoning tears. When the first one fell, there was silence.

Byleth opened his eyes. He was lying on the Tomb’s floor again, head in Sothis’s lap. She smiled sadly at him.

“You cannot keep this up,” she said.

“Tell me,” Byleth whispered. His body was heavy, drained completely of all strength. There was no point fighting anymore. He wouldn’t be able to move, no matter how hard he tried. “You know I only look this way because of you. My eyes are blue. My blood is red. I can’t be…”

He stopped, unsure of the correct term. Sothis shook her head, still smiling.

“These are not questions I can answer,” she said.

“But you’re the goddess.”

“You truly are quite stubborn. I only woke the night you came to me in Remire. During your parents’ lives, your birth, your childhood, I slumbered. So no, I do not know these things. But there is someone who does. These are questions for her.”

“But—”

“Hush,” Sothis said, stroking his hair away from his forehead. “You must rest. Stop this futile search. For now, this is your home.”

Byleth looked away. The sarcophagus opposite them reflected the light of the lantern that hung above it, casting a green glow that shimmered across Sothis’s skin when he turned back to her.

“Do you hate it?” he asked. “Being trapped down here?”

Sothis’s hand stilled. She slowly lifted her eyes and glanced around the Tomb, at the dozens of sarcophagi surrounding them.

“I believe…”

She trailed off, then released a deep sigh. Her fingers skimmed across his forehead once more, even more gently than before.

“From what I have learned, by seeing through your eyes, I believe that these are the graves of my children,” she said. “So perhaps there are worse places to spend eternity.”

A monument to the goddess. A monument to death. Byleth closed his eyes.

“I can’t stay here,” he said. “I can’t be here, with the dead, while Dimitri is living.”

He felt a kiss, distant, painfully tender, against his brow.

_Sleep easy, Beloved._

“I know, young one,” Sothis said. “So when you are ready, go. Live, for both of us. But for now, sleep easy.”

*

A song, sparkling with joy and life. It was loud, somewhere close by. Birds. But Byleth didn’t move. His body felt heavy, like it was sinking further and further into the bed beneath him. Back to sleep. He wished to go back to sleep.

_Dear young fool._

Byleth gasped and opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, thick blankets pulled up to his shoulders. Above him was a wooden ceiling instead of the tent roof he’d expected, its knots and creases cast into relief by sunlight creeping through an uncurtained window.

He sat up, letting the blankets pool around his waist.

And smiled.

Across from the bed Dimitri reclined in a cushioned chair, head lolling against its high back. Fast asleep, one arm dangling over the rest so his fingertips brushed the floor, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. The jacket of his uniform hung open to reveal a shirt partially untucked.

Byleth’s heart warmed. He had never see Dimitri look so undignified. If he had not been loathed to interrupt a rare moment of peace, he would have gone to him, brushed aside his hair, removed his eye patch to make him more comfortable. All for the pleasure of kissing him when he woke, reminding him just how much he was loved.

Dimitri shifted. The chair’s legs scraped across the floor, startling him awake. He gripped the chair’s arms briefly, eye staring at the ceiling, before he finally looked towards the bed.

The moment their eyes met, Dimitri lurched off the chair and strode across the room in three paces. He dropped onto the bed to envelop Byleth in his arms, who fell against him and tried to focus on all the places they were touching at once, to convince himself that it was real.

“You came back to me,” Dimitri choked, lifting one hand to cradle Byleth’s head. “I thought…I thought you…”

Byleth pulled back far enough to see Dimitri’s face. He noted the dark circle under his eye, the imprint of the eye patch’s strap where it had shifted. The shaving nick on his chin. Curious, fearful, he lifted a hand and placed it just below Dimitri’s ear, so he could thumb that mark.

Dimitri dove forward and kissed him. Byleth melted into it, digging his fingers into Dimitri’s back, trying to bring them closer together. He revelled in the dance of their lips, the heat passing between them. Things impossible to replicate, impossible to feel, in a dream.

It all ended with a gasp as Dimitri tensed and urged Byleth away.

“I’m supposed to…” he began.

Byleth grabbed the lapel of his jacket and kissed him anew, until the worry in his posture vanished. When Dimitri eventually pulled away again, it was with a smile. He gathered Byleth into his arms, tucking his head under his chin.

“I love you,” he said.

Byleth snuggled against Dimitri, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“I love you,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend to leave you all on a cliffhanger for so long. Unfortunately the next update will be delayed as well; real life has swallowed me whole and I don't expect things to slow down for at least another fortnight. I will, however, endeavour to get some good writing in during that time so updates can return to schedule soon.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos for the last chapter! Every single one meant a lot.
> 
> As always, stay safe.


End file.
